From this dark room
by ontara
Summary: A string of unexplained murders/suicides leads the brothers to MA where people start turning against those they love the most. When Dean starts acting strange Sam has to find a way to save his brother…hurt/Dean; protective/Sam...please read and review
1. Chapter 1

_Hi and welcome to my third supernatural multi-chap._

_This story is set somewhere in season 2, no real spoilers unless, maybe, for BUABS…but nothing too specific. _

_I'm not too good with ratings and stuff, but there might be some language, so be aware of that, but nothing too bad. _

_Also, I feel obliged to tell you again that english is not my first language, so please be kind and overlook any spelling mistakes or weird sentence-contructions if you find any. I hope it's not too bad…_

_I can't help myself and __toss Dean around a bit, but if you know my other stories you know that I really do care about him (both of them) a lot._

_Also, I try to update regularly, usually once a week or so, I found that rhythm to be alright with me and hopefully you readers as well. _

_Reviews are always appreciated, even though the story is pretty much planned out in my head already and I most likely will keep posting it whether people review or not, I find my muse works much better and faster when I get at least some responses ;-)_

_Oh, and in case anyone was wondering: still don't own them…so the usual disclaimers apply, what a pity!_

_Other than that…I hope you enjoy!_

**From this dark room**

**Prologue**

Dedham, MA

A loud bang in the downstairs kitchen jolted Emily Bowers awake.

She sat up in bed with a start, brain still muddled with sleep and the remnants of a lost again dream as she tried to determine whether or not the sound that had woken her had been real or not.

She'd been a light sleeper as of late, even though before last week Mark, her husband had told her that she'd probably be able to sleep through a bomb going off right next to their bed, she'd been such a deep sleeper.

Well, maybe it had something to do with the moon, then, or the constellation of stars or something like that. Her mom and sister both were pretty susceptible to things like that; maybe it had just taken a while longer till she caught up with it too.

She waited, trying to still her fast beating heart, listening intently to any sounds from downstairs. For a whole five minutes, there was nothing. Just when she decided that she was about to lose it completely now, that it had just been a trick of her mind, something her newly sleep-deprived brain had cooked up to keep her awake yet another night, she heard the sound again.

She jumped, grabbing the blankets and drawing them closer towards her throat.

Great now, wasn't she just the impersonation of every girl in every single bad horror movie she'd ever seen on TV? While the men would get up, grab a baseball bat and go investigate the sound, the girls would stay behind, shivering and yelping and clutching the damn sheets close to their flimsily clad upper bodies. Because, no matter where the movie played, no matter how cold or warm it was outside, those girls always wore nothing more than a see-through tank top and barely there, skin tight slips to bed, right?

OK…so wile she was acting like one of those girls, at least she wasn't dressed like them, too. Her pyjama bottoms and gray t-shirt anything but sexy, Mark had told her so often enough. Which had subsequently led to him undressing her…but that was something she didn't need think about right now.

Speaking of Mark…it figured that this was the first night in the over three years they had been married that they didn't share their bed. They'd just had their first fight, a real, door-banging and vase-throwing kind of fight yesterday morning and Mark had left to _cool off_ and stay with a friend until they'd figured this out. He had used other words, though…he'd said until she'd _stopped bitching and whining and pulling on his nerves._ Which was ridiculous, since he'd been the one who had acted unreasonable and out of order for some days now.

Oh god, how she wished that Mark was here tight now. He was the tall, strong, handsome guy that she'd always thought would protect her from anything bad in the whole world. Had been her romantic strong protector ever since they'd met in college. It just figured that the one night something bad actually was happening to her, he was not there. Because of something she'd apparently done wrong. Even though she still didn't know what it had been.

Well, she'd have to figure this out later…right now she had another problem at hand. The sound was there again, a little more subdued this time and Emily shivered at the thought of a burglar going through the downstairs room of their little home. How long till he or they would venture to check the rooms upstairs? Not that she had anything worth taking, but they wouldn't know that. She sure couldn't just wait until they'd come up and find out, though. She had to do something.

She untangled her legs from the blankets, reaching into the nightstand for her portable phone, quietly pressing 911 while rooting around the drawer for the pepper-spray she kept there since they'd moved into the house and she'd felt frightened by the strange sounds the old wooden structure had made during the night.

Her heart was racing, blood drumming loudly in her ears and it took her a while to realize that someone had picked up on the other end, talking to her, asking her for her name and kind of emergency.

_Damn__._

She moved the couple of steps towards the door, trying to listen to the downstairs sounds at the same time as talking quietly to the operator on the other end.

"Yes…hello, I'm…I think there is someone in my house…" she whispered, voice shaking.

"Ok, ma'm…tell us your name and address and we'll send someone over there right away."

Yeah…sure…she should have thought of that herself.

"I live in 28 Indian Lane in Dedham. My name's Emily Bowers. My husband…he's not home. I don't know…I think its some burglars…"

Her voice broke at the last word and she hated herself for being so weak, hated herself for feeling like she'd wet her pants any minute, she was so frightened.

"Ok, ma'm…we'll send a patrol car over there as soon as possible. Can you get out of the house undetected or lock yourself…"

And then the line went dead.

Emily again jumped at the sudden stillness on the line, shaking the phone in her hand desperately, looking at it as if that might give her any clue as to what had happened.

She felt like crawling under the bed right then and there, hide until the police came and got her out, but again those stupid horror-film scenes raced through her head – damn Mark for making her watch them in the first place – when the women would hide under the bed, see the legs approaching and then suddenly the intruder would drop down and look right at them…god, she always had hated those scenes, even though she'd known what would happen anyways and still… it gave her the creeps to just think about it.

No way was she going to get under the bed.

The bedroom door didn't have a lock on it…or rather, it had a lock but no key, so she couldn't very well stay here. She almost passed out at the thought that she'd have to leave this room, get out into the hallway, not knowing where the intruders might be right now and make her way to the bathroom – the only room upstairs that she would be able to lock right. She might even be able to make it out of the house there…the small roof of the back-porch running right underneath the bathroom window. She might be able to climb out and jump off then, hide in the bushes out back, or the little tool-shed Mark had built out of an old doghouse.

That or make her way over to the neighbours. Kate and Jim ought to be home, fast asleep, sure, but she knew where they hid their keys…and they had a dog, a Rottweiler. While _Lady_ was one of the cutest dogs, like, ever, would never bite anyone, it still might make her feel just a bit safer having the 90 pound dog by her side.

Her hand were shaking and sweating and she had to wipe them down on her pyjama bottoms before she wrapped her fingers around the doorknob, other hand holding a death-grip on the pepper-spray. She took two steadying breaths, then another one, just for good measure, before she turned the knob as quietly as possible, gently easing the door open, thanking whoever was willing to listen that she'd insisted Mark oil the hinges just last month.

Then she found herself face to face with the source of the noises.

She let out a scream, hand letting go of the doorknob and wrapping around her other on the pepper-spray, ready to spray the intruder into oblivion. Had she been a tad faster, a tad more steady, she would have accomplished it, too. Only she wasn't.

A big hand clamped down on hers, pushing them out of the way, clearing the spray-range.

The next scream caught in her throat.

"Mark…"

She almost sobbed out the word, immediately hating herself for the relief that flooded her upon seeing her husband right there in front of her, in the middle of the night, in a completely dark house where he'd just scared her half to death.

He just stood there, looking at her probably, only that the poor lighting made it impossible to see his eyes clearly, not saying anything.

Ok, so maybe he was here to apologize, finally, had come back to her. Only that this was a pretty darn bad timing he'd got there, but Emily thought that she might be willing to forgive him. If he had a good explanation for his behaviour. Or an extraordinary make-up present.

"Mark…what…you scared the hell out of me! What…why didn't you call and let me know you were coming home?"

Mark still stood there, head down a little, still no talking.

The uneasy feeling suddenly, unexplainably, crept back up Emily's spine and her hand unconsciously tightened around the pepper-spray once more.

He was breathing a little heavily…maybe he was drunk? Only that Mark never had been drunk, ever before. He hardly ever drank, period. He was the sweetest person, the most gentle man she'd ever met in her whole life.

She pushed her uneasiness aside, putting it off to sleep-deprivation and the strain of the past couple of days without her husband around, extending her hand to cup Mark's cheek and make him look at her, see those beautiful blue eyes again, eyes that had always made her feel loved and wanted and safe.

"Mark…honey…is something wrong? Why don't you…why don't you come in and we talk…"

She never got to finish the sentence as Mark suddenly whipped his head up and for the blink of a second she saw his eyes, bloodshot and almost black with unexplainable rage, pupils so dilated that none of the light blue was visible anymore. She never got to get the pepper-spray ready to strike, never even got the chance to raise her arm to defend herself as that man that used to love her, that she used to love, charged her, a large knife coming down at her throat, cutting off any sound she was about to make.

**Chapter 1**

Sam entered the diner, eyes automatically flicking to the back corner of the small room, the last booth next to the doors that led to the bathrooms and the emergency exit. Sure enough, that was where he found his brother.

Dean sat, back to the wall, facing towards the entrance as usual, open laptop in front of him, next to a steaming cup of coffee and an empty plate of whatever breakfast he had already gulped down before Sam's arrival.

As Sam strode over he thought that Dean hadn't noticed him but as he was about two steps away form the table Dean shot him a quick look from underneath his lashes, tugged his mouth into a bright grin.

"Morning sunshine…my, my, don't you look nice and rested…"

Sam pulled a face as he folded his lanky body into the small booth, sitting across from his brother and regarding him with a raised eyebrow – not quite a match to Dean's trademark one, he had to admit that, but Dean would get the picture.

"Yeah, well…it's barely 8.30. _AM_. I would have expected you to still be in a coma-like state now… what is it with you and the early morning exercise? And why did you take the laptop?"

"I figured while you are still chasing butterflies and ladybugs in la-la-land, I might as well get some research done, find us a new gig…"

"At what, 7 o clock in the morning?"

"'t was more like 6.30, as a matter of fact. But this place doesn't open up till 7, so I had to spend some time sitting on the front steps, waiting…at least I got the freshest coffee, like, ever!"

"You feeling alright?" he asked as casually as possible, picking up Dean's cup and taking a sip, completely ignoring his brother's frown at that motion.

He knew what had woken his brother, or at least he was pretty sure what had. He had to have been bursting after last nights dinner, the, Sam was pretty sure, tons of meat they'd devoured. It had been hell on his own stomach, Dean couldn't really have felt much better. But of course he'd be too stubborn to admit to it.

"Sure I'm feeling alright. Better than ever, as a matter of fact. You should really try this getting up early to greet the day thing one time!"

Sam had to work hard on keeping his face straight at that. Coming from Dean, _Mr. I don't do mornings_, this certainly was something new altogether.

"Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

"Oh Sammy, very original…you're such a blast… I'm telling you, I'm fine. Couldn't sleep and didn't want to wake you tapping away in the room – that's why I came here, all the way through the dark, by the way, on foot, just so you could have your beauty-sleep, little brother. You sure needed it!"

"Ok, so I needn't drench you in holy water, just to make sure? We could go out back, pull an impromptu exorcism on you…"

Dean's reply thankfully was cut short when the waitress stepped up to their table, hip cocked and pen poised, waiting for Sam's order.

Sam ordered coffee and eggs on toast and to his surprise Dean didn't only ask for a refill on his coffee but also for another round of pancakes and syrup – the big serving, of course. When the waitress left again, hips swaying a little too obviously which sure enough drew Dean's attention to her retreating form, Sam coughed imploringly.

"Two breakfasts?"

"Gee, mum…I'm a big guy…need a big breakfast…burning a lot of calories with all the _hunting evil, saving the innocent_ stuff we're doing, you know?"

Sam had to grin inwardly, not willing to let it out in the open though, wanting to tease his brother a little more. It was nice, to be honest, to see that Dean seemed to have his appetite back, after all that had happened. It hadn't been anything too obvious, but the past couple of months Dean had gone on and off, eating less and drinking more every once in a while whenever the grief over their dad, the deal, had gotten the better of him again. Never apparent enough so Sam would have a reason to talk to him about it, but Sam _had _noticed, of course. He knew his brother better then himself at times, he knew when Dean was hurting.

"How can you be hungry after that whole pig and I don't know haw many poor chicken's wings you wolfed down last night?"

"Don't know how, Sammy, I just am. Besides, it wasn't as if you didn't have you share in the massacre that was dinner last night, so would you cut the lecture and leave me in peace…pretty please?"

Dean fluttered his eyelids mockingly at him, doing some bad imitation of Sam's puppy-dog-eyes which actually made Sam huff a laugh. But then, breakfast being the most important meal of the day and all…and they'd probably get plenty of exercise again soon, depending on what Dean had managed to dig up for them. Still Sam was going to shoot something back at Dean, he'd never been one to let go of something that easily, like a dog with a bone Dean used to call it, which wasn't always a good trade, Sam knew that.

Just in time, though the waitress cut them off again, bringing over Sam's coffee, leaning over the table much farther than she needed have when refilling Dean's cup to the brim. Sam couldn't help but notice that somehow the top button of her dress seemed to have sprung open, revealing an ample bosom and he briefly considered pointing her mishap out to her but decided against it at the last minute. He dropped his chin, hiding his grin behind long fingers that pretended to scratch the bridge of his nose, revelling in the familiarity of his brother's wide-eyed flirtatious smile.

Some things would never change…

For the next couple of minutes they didn't speak, Dean reading while Sam studied the newspaper he had grabbed form the counter on his way in, skimming the articles loosely but finding nothing of interest. At least not their kind of interest.

Dean only looked up when the waitress came back with their breakfasts and pushed the laptop towards the window and out of the way so she could place the two plates in front of them. He rubbed his hands in silent appreciation of the pile of syrupy pancakes in front of him, only able to tear his eyes away from it as the waitress spoke up.

"If there's anything else you need…anything, just gimme a shout." she purred, then turned around and left, rolling her hips some more when she felt Dean's eyes following her closely. Sam couldn't help but roll his eyes before nudging his brother's shin underneath the table none too lightly, earning himself a glowering stare and a hissed threat that he didn't quite understand. Not that he needed to. He was pretty sure that his imagination was more than sufficient.

They started eating in silence, Dean practically devouring the pancakes and Sam really did doubt that he could possibly be this hungry after what they'd had last night for dinner, but decided to not delve into the topic again. This was nice, actually, brotherly…comfortable. Like old times. He was not going to risk losing it by some stupid teasing remark that would probably go down Dean's wrong throat.

After going through about half his plate, Dean finally leaned back, hand on his stomach, belching slightly.

"Dude…gross. I'm still eating here!" Sam complained but Dean only smirked at him before pushing the plate aside, keeping a hold on the fork, though while sliding the laptop over again, keeping it angled so Sam could get a look, too.

"I think I found something." Dean said, clicking through some open windows until he found the one he was looking for, pointing a syrupy fork at an online article from some small town Massachusetts newspaper.

"Read that…" he prompted while spearing another stack of bite-sized pancake and stuffing it into his mouth.

Sam watched him with a mixture of amusement and disgust for a second before focusing his eyes on the screen. There was simply no use in reminding his brother of his annoying eating habits. Besides, Sam was pretty sure Dean was going to regret this little feast here sooner rather than later and he made a mental note to hide the _pepto bismol_ just to have a little fun on his brother's behalf.

Sam skimmed the article loosely, then checking the name of the paper and the date, drawing his brows together slightly before reading the article again, more carefully this time. He was aware of Dean watching him intently and tried to hold onto his best poker face, dangerously close to pulling a face at his big brother, sticking his tongue out or something else completely unnecessary and childish.

It was only a couple of way too short weeks now that things had gotten easer between them again. That they'd gotten back on track again, had learned not to tiptoe around each other anymore. Not that things had ever been really easy, not before Sam had gone to school and certainly not after, but somehow they'd always managed to make the best out of it, had learned how to deal with it so it became as _normal_ as it would ever be for a Winchester.

And for the first time in a very long time Sam felt like this might not be the worst life he could have chosen. Not the best either, most definitely, but there were worse things in the world than having a brother that you not only got along with, but actually, truly cared about, loved even. For some reason it had taken for him to go to school and learn that not everybody who had siblings actually got along as well with them as he did with Dean.

To him it had the most normal thing in the world, his brother being there, for him, caring for him, giving his last shirt for him, so to speak. Sure, they'd fought, had had some disagreements and brotherly jests, but at the end of the day, they'd still been best friends and as close to each other as they'd been before. And Sam had never thought that it could be any different. For anybody.

At college he'd learned that what he and Dean shared was anything but _normal_ though. His first roommate, Ryan, had a brother and two older sisters, and he was barely talking to either of them. Sam had though that they must have had some kind of fight or something, since Ryan only talked to his siblings about once a month, tops. Only it turned out that they got along well enough, if you asked Ryan about it, but they just didn't…share that much. He used to say that they didn't have all that much in common.

And that hadn't been the only case he'd come to witness over the years. Most seeing their brothers and sisters for holidays and birthdays, talking to them every once in a while. But even those that were really close still didn't have the kind of connection Dean and Sam had shared.

After they'd gone back on the road together again, it had taken Sam a while to get into the flow, to find his place in their brotherly relationship again. Dean had helped him ease back into it. But then, once he'd readjusted himself again, their dad had reappeared and while Sam had been more than grateful for that, it still had shaken them up again bad.

And then…their dad getting possessed, the car accident…dad dying to safe Dean… It had pretty much torn Sam to pieces. Not only, obviously, the grief about John's death but the realization that all this time spent together, the year now after reuniting, gone within the snap of a finger. Back to square one. Or even, back to before square one because never before had Dean been so distant and closed off and self-destructing as after coming back, after being saved from the claws of the reaper. Again. Never before had he been more intent on keeping his little brother out of his head. And it had taken Sam not only close to an eternity but also about all of his strength and determination and empathy, all his skill as a brother and friend to get Dean back.

Those past months "apart" probably the worst of his life.

Worse then when being apart for real, physically, even, because then he'd not been forced to witness his brother fighting and trying and fighting some more and still failing to hold himself together. Then, at least, he had been able to pretend ignorance.

"Hey…earth to Sam…dude, you still with me?"

Dean's voice plus an exaggerated wave in front of his face, silver ring on his brother's finger blinding him with the reflection of the shrill overhead neon-light, ripping Sam out of his reverie. His vision doubled for a second when so suddenly being forced to focus on the here and now again. He looked straight into the slightly concerned and badly masked frown on Dean's face, his eyes mirroring his worry about his little brother so openly, Sam wanted to sob he was so relived that at least he was able to _see_ something in Dean's expression again.

He was so relieved, that he failed to answer his brother, just staring at him and only when Dean was about to get up and practically rush over to his side, holding onto him, shaking him most likely, was Sam finally able to pull himself together all the way, holding up a placating hand to keep his brother from rushing him, most likely alerting the rest of the restaurant to them, getting more eyes on them as they both felt comfortable with.

"Yeah…Dean, sorry man…just lost in thought."

Dean raised an eyebrow at him, the worry still deeply engraved into his features yet forcing himself to settle back onto the bench due to his brother's assurance. Muscles still tense enough to be able to propel him to his brother's side within a second, should the need arise, Sam knew that much.

"You sure…I mean, you completely zoned out on me…almost looked like you were going to have another vision there?"

Oh, yeah, right. Almost forgot about those… Forgot about the helplessness his brother must be feeling when he had them, the absolute impotence to do anything to help Sam get through them.

"No Dean, really, just a little tired still, I guess. Sorry dude. Didn't mean to scare you."

Dean shook his head, finally relaxing again.

Trusting his brother to tell him the truth. Yet another thing that had taken them awhile to get back to – trusting each other.

"So, you got to read the article before you went all _rainman_ on me or want me to recap for you?"

Sam looked back at the laptop then, realizing that indeed he had gone through the whole article, taking only a moment to remember what it had been all about. The ability to remember things like that in a heartbeat having been a lifesaver back in high school when, dead on his feet after a hunt with his brother and father, he'd pretty much fallen asleep at his desk more than once to be roused by one of his teachers. Somehow he'd always been able to talk himself out of it then. Now was no exception.

"Yeah…uhm…a string of unexplained deaths in a couple of suburbs of Boston, MA. All of the victims seem to have been killed by their spouse or girlfriend/boyfriend, one by her best friend and roommate. All of the alleged killers later committed suicide before they could be taken into custody or questioned in depth."

Dean leaned forward again, pushing some keys, bringing up another window.

"Yeah…since the deaths are strewn all over a number of different suburbs nobody ever questioned that the cases were individual, also since the killers seemed to have been found in every single case. And since the alleged killers later killed themselves the police took that as an admission of guilt and never dug any deeper. Well, that and the fact that those different departments don't tend to work well with each other in the first place. Anyway…6 deaths so far over a three month period, Only that not all of the killers committed suicide…the last one, a Mark Bowers…slit his wife's throat, then went havoc on her body…stabbed her 26 times but didn't get to turn on himself after. Turns out that the wife managed to call 911, reporting an intruder in her home before he got to her. When the patrol car arrived on the scene they caught Mr. Bowers pretty much in the act, smeared with blood and pretty much ravenous, attacking the officers and they had to shoot him. Only got him down though, didn't kill him. When he came to in the hospital he swore that he never intended to cause his wife any harm, that he loved her more than anything and that he just got _'so damn angry for no reason and simply had to shut her up'_. He's been admitted to a mental lockup facility until his case can be determined for real."

"26 times…? Talk about overkill…"

"Yeah, go figure… So, what do you think…sounds like our kind of gig, right?"

"I don't know…but we've gone on a lot less than that, anyways. Besides, Boston is only a, what, 10 hour drive from here, right? Probably more like 8 hours, the way you are driving…"

Dean smirked at that, definitely proud of himself and Sam laughed at the sight of his brother's face at the remark.

"We could definitely make it by nightfall." He conceded, pushing his finally empty plate aside.

"You _do_ know though, that it's my turn to drive, Dean. I _did_ win that bet last night."

Dean sank lower into the bench automatically, groaning while booting down the laptop.

"Come on, Sammy…it's not fair. You did go to college after all…" he whined.

"Yeah but Dean…that wasn't trivial pursuit or something. It was just _guess who's going to die next _in the horror movie of the week…I always thought you were the expert on old, badly made slasher flicks here."

"Ah Sammy, can't know them all. Come on, I only got one wrong. Why should my baby suffer from one teeny tiny mistake…"

Sam shook his head, downed the last sip of his coffee, made ready to get up.

"A bet's a bet, Dean. You said the chick with the D-cup fake boobs was next and she wasn't. End of story. I'm driving."

"Saaaaamy, she died only, like, two seconds after that guy she was banging…"

"You know that sometimes two seconds is all it takes, Dean. Suck it up and grow yourself some balls. You lost, I won, I'm driving. That's that. Off to Boston, then. Breakfast's on you, too, by the way."

With that he pretty much charged out of the diner, not caring about the slightly bewildered stares of the other patrons plus the seductive waitress as he waved at her on his way out to the parking lot.

Again those definitely x-rated curses directed at him, not loud enough for anyone else to hear but him. And he couldn't have cared less.

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Tbc

_AN:_

_I was hoping that posting would get easier with time…not the case, though, at least not for me. Still nervous like hell._

_So, what do you think? You want me to go on? I sure hope so!_

_As promised I'll most likely update again next weekend. I work best on a deadline, so I'll just set one for myself right now and hope I'll manage to live up to it!_

_Again, thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed and take care!_


	2. Chapter 2

_So, as promis__ed before, here goes chapter two, right on schedule._

_I already wrote this to those of you who reviewed, but just for good measure and in case someone else was wondering:_

_I was told that the storyline reminds of the season 4 episode Sex and Violence._

_I'm compelled to tell you that I haven't seen that episode yet, my country finished airing season 2 a couple of months ago and it's been quiet ever since!_

_I have no idea what this episode is about, I haven't even read the summary anywhere, and right now I'm not going to either, because then I'll probably just abandon my story altogether. _

_So, I hope this is not too bad…please read it and make up your own mind but I swear I'm not trying to bore you with something that has been done a lot better before. I hope you'll find this not too bad._

_Enough said, please enjoy:_

From this dark room

Chapter 2

"Man…I feel like a freaking undertaker in this thing…"

Dean muttered under his breath, working on keeping his face straight and his voice as low as possible as they followed one of the security guards down a long, blank hallway towards one of the visiting areas on the other end of the building.

He felt like jostling Sam, just for the sake of it, just to make him suffer a little more like he was currently suffering himself in this _god-awful_ suit, detesting Sam for looking so damn at ease wearing his', but of course that was out of the question. They were sworn officers of the law, after all, federal agents, even. That sure would look kind of odd, them poking and trying to trip each other. Even though the temptation was clearly overwhelming. And from the look Sam shot him now, the kid seemed to know what was itching Dean, clearly telling him to better keep himself in check.

"Stop fidgeting and concentrate, dude…" Sam whispered back at him, the slight amusement in his voice overshadowed by the worry that their cover would be blown and Dean would get them arrested. They really did have enough experience with the police and FBI as it was. Dean knew it. Still, it was darn hard to resist.

"I hate this thing…" he couldn't stop himself from mouthing towards Sam, then speeding up and pushing past Sam into the held open door of the interrogation room the officer leading the way showed them into.

"We'll get Mr. Bowers for you in just a minute. Please be advised that you are to stay on your side of the table at all times while Mr. Bowers is in here with you. No touching the _patient, _he is not to be handed anything or allowed to touch you or get up from his chair. If you need any assistance, there is a buzzer next to the door right here, just press that and someone will be in here momentarily."

Dean saw his brother nodding solemnly, jutting his chin towards the camera in the top corner of the room, right next to the door, facing the chair the _patient _would be seated in soon.

"That thing working?"

Dean noted with a surge of pride and admiration how his baby brother managed to make his voice sound all gruff and official all of a sudden, easing right into the act they'd developed for themselves. He _was _getting better at this, no doubt about it.

"Only if you want it to. We don't usually monitor the visits unless it's something official. Seeing as you are not officially assigned to the case yet…"

Dean cocked his head, hearing the slight colour of doubt in the man's voice.

"We are just here to determine if maybe Mr. Bowers' case is connected to some other deaths we've been investigating down the east coast. No need to make this into something it's not right now. How about we'll let you know as soon as we see the need to tape the session…?" Dean chimed in.

All sweet yet professional smiles now and Dean idly wondered when exactly he had taken on the part of the _good cop_ in their little scheme. He usually liked _bad cop_ far better, and usually Sam didn't mind. But this just might be fun, for a change.

The guard nodded, backing out of the room, leaving the door ajar. Which didn't leave them with the freedom to talk among themselves undisturbed, so a quick exchange of telltale looks would have had to do for the moment. And sure enough, whatever needed to be said between them was able to be conveyed easily enough.

Dean had missed this…this silent understanding. For quite a while now they had not really dared to look each other in the eye anymore for fear of what they might see in the others', for fear of what the other would see in their own. But it still worked, apparently. Amazing, really. But he wasn't going to question it. Years and years of working side by side, shoulder to shoulder, apparently not shed quite as easily.

"I wonder why he's not in a high-security prison right now…not that I'm complaining. This way, we at least get to talk to him without too much trouble…" Dean finally mused, his voice low and only intended for Sam to hear.

His brother shrugged, walked over to the window, looking out through the barred off glass before turning back around towards him, checking the door before answering back to him.

"His attorney must be freaking good, or else he'd be rotting away in a prison cell, no doubt. He's most likely pleaded on mental incapacity or something. It's weird alright, but it's actually good for us, right? We'd have one hell of a hard time getting into a high-security prison to interview him…"

Yeah, maybe their luck held out, for once. Would be one of the very view times that happened. But Dean was willing to take whatever he could get without asking too many questions right now. Time enough for that later.

Only a couple of minutes after the guard had left Mr. Bowers was finally brought into the room.

Dean didn't know what he'd expected, the article hadn't donned any pictures. But then again…what exactly did an alleged murderer look like? Well, he certainly hadn't expected this though and immediately a feeling of _wrong_ swamped him, making it hard to stay objective within just the first couple of seconds of seeing this guy.

He didn't look fierce or dangerous, didn't look overly inconspicuous either, not the way some of the worst psychos looked like, those _quiet, never did anything bad to anyone _kind of guys that eventually ended up slaughtering their whole family, including the family cat and dog.

This guy looked…heartbroken. Probably pretty good looking, if Dean could be any judge of that, about Dean's size, well built but not overly toned, dark brown hair, light blue eyes, skin tone a shade darker than Dean's. He walked slightly slumped, the shoulder that the policemen had shot heavily bandaged, the affected left arm in a sling. His right hand was cuffed and fixed to some kind of belt around his waist, the left hand left free due to the injury. His legs were free as well, and Dean guessed that this was due to the fact that he was officially a _patient_ rather than a criminal offender right now. Which was still weird, considering the evidence, the blood literally on his hands when he'd been caught in the act, red handed but at least something was working in their favour, just this once, Sam had been right about that. And the guy didn't look like he was going to do anybody any harm right now, certainly not them.

The guards helped him ease down into a chair opposite the brothers/FBI agents then leaving the room, this time closing the door behind them.

Dean saw how Sam shot a quick look up towards the camera, but there was no way to tell if the thing was running or not, certainly there would be no light flashing or anything. Well, they would just have to trust them, then.

Sam sat down on one of the chairs opposite Mr. Bowers and Dean quickly followed suit, dragging his chair over a bit so he was the one sitting closer to the man, being able to lean forward and into the guy's personal space a bit. He might not need to intimidate the man, not the way he looked scared out of his mind already, but one never knew what it would be good for, in the end.

The man had his head down a bit, eying them from under swollen lids. He'd clearly been crying, definitely not sleeping well too, if the deep shadows underneath his eyes were anything to go by.

Sam introduced them to the distraught man in front of them, using their adopted aliases of agent Hamill and Ford, which Dean still found hilarious and he had to stifle the grin that threatened to split his face behind a cough before being able to settle back down.

_God, he was a genius…honestly now._

The guy eyed them from underneath puffy lids, looking as much like a killer as Mother Theresa, even sniffing a little now and again Dean felt this urge that this was _wrongwrongwrong. _Mr. Bowers attempted to swipe his nose, got stopped by the handcuffs and chains, sighed almost pitifully before rubbing his nose on his right shoulder.

OK, now that was a bit disgusting, took a big piece out of all the sympathy Dean had had for the man. On the other hand, what was a man to do? He couldn't very much let the snot run free, right?

"What…like Star Wars…?" Mr. Bowers suddenly sniffed, his voice raspy and dry and Dean could just retain himself from rearing backwards at the statement.

Oh god, Sammy was so not going to let him see the end of this.

"What…uhm…no, just us…Mr Bowers, lets no try any distraction techniques here and focus on your case for a moment, shall we?"

Dean had himself under control again pretty quickly and the man at least seemed to let it pass just as quickly.

"Sorry…" the man mumbled, eyes averted again.

Great, a devote guy. Somehow Dean thought that he preferred the defensive ones. Those at least he could snap at without making them cry.

At the helpless look Dean shot towards his brother, Sam took over again. Getting back to his empathetic tone, low and soothing and the man seemed to just melt under his little brother's words like butter in the sun. Dean leaned slightly back, giving the stage to Sam, watching.

"So, Mr. Bowers, can I call you Mark?"

The man nodded jerkily, eyes nervously shooting up towards Sam face, lips tugged into a slight, polite smile before he went back to chewing his lips again.

"Alright then, Mark…you know why we are here…you know why _you _are here… Now, the evidence against you is pretty oppressive, care to tell us what exactly happened that night at your house?"

Mark bit his lips, drawing blood now, staying quiet.

"Mark…listen, we are trying to help you, alright? If you tell us the truth, maybe we can arrange something, help you out a bit. You just need to tell us what really happened, then we can figure something out…"

The man started to fidget a bit, again trying to scratch his nose, again failing as the chain only allowed for him to reach up to his chest at the most. He hissed in pain, resettled his hand in his lap again.

"That shoulder still bothering you?"

A short nod. At least it was some kind of recognition that he actually understood them. Dean had been beginning to doubt that the guy was truly, fully there with them.

"They taking good care of you here?"

At that Dean rolled his eyes mentally. God, Sam could be such a _girl _sometimes.

Again a short nod plus a shrug, which was kind of contradictory, but Mark seemed to be engaging in the one sided conversation more and more now.

"Do you remember getting shot?"

"Yeah…no…I don't know…"

At this answer, both Winchesters straightened a bit, sensing their chance, not willing to lose it again. And because of that, Dean gave Sam an almost imperceptible nod to continue. He'd chip in when needed.

"So…you don't really remember? That's the shock most likely. But what about everything else…what about the murder."

And then, almost like an audible snap, Mark was there with them. His eyes bright and glassy, but alert.

"I didn't…I mean…I don't know. I loved her…Emily was…she was my everything. I could have never hurt her…"

Voice breaking again and that was the point when Dean had had enough. All the best-meant empathy only went so far, after all.

"Well, seems like you hurt her, alright. Stabbed her 26 times. How is that showing your love for her, Mark? Enlighten me here."

Dean saw Sam wince a little at the harshness of his words, but again, it did have the desired effect in the end. Truth be told, Dean himself felt rotten and like the lowest piece of scum saying it, but he knew that sometimes there was nothing like a little prodding and poking to get someone going. Anger a great way to get someone to open up.

"I would have never hurt her. I loved her…we are…were married for three years, been together for almost 10 now, and we never, ever even had so much as a serious fight. We were happy. I loved her, she loved me, we were planning on having kids soon… Her job was going well, I've just been promoted…there was just no reason for us…for me…"

Voice trailing off, as if he didn't know where he was going with this thought himself. As if the just realized something and was more surprised about it than anything else.

"For you to what?" Sam again, all warm and soothing and gentle. Ok, role reversal again for sure now. Dean was willing to swim with the current here, let his little brother take over. Sam usually was far better at this than him anyway, always knew when to pry, when to back off again.

"…for me to be mad at her like that." Mark whispered, a tear finally squeezing its way out of the corner of his eye, trailing a lazy path down his cheek. He didn't even try to wipe it away anymore.

"Why were you mad at her, Mark?"

He lifted the hand cradled in his lap slightly, letting it drop again, searching for the answers to most likely a million questions on the surface of the cold, bare aluminium table in front of him.

"I…I just…I couldn't control it anymore. I don't know why, but I…I hated her. From the deepest bottom of my heart and soul I hated her. I didn't just want to leave her, or for her to leave me, didn't want to go our different ways…I just wanted to…to get her out of my face once and for all… But at the same time…every once in a while, like little flashes of sanity or something, I knew that it was wrong, that I didn't want to do it. But those flashes, there were so…few and far between and in the end they didn't come back at all anymore. It was just…pure and dark and deep and I…"

"…you killed her…" Dean finished the sentence for the man, unconsciously leaning away from him as if to bring some distance between himself and this man that had done the unthinkable, that had not only killed but butchered the women he had sworn to love and protect forever.

Or, rather, till death do us part, right? So he'd helped death along a little, sped things up.

Dean felt repulsed, mostly by himself, for wanting to believe this man to be innocent, for this gut-feeling that told him that he hadn't done this, that he couldn't have. But he'd just admitted to it, right? So why were they even still here?

One sideway look at Sam told him that Sam was having a hard time stomaching the confession as well. And Dean wished that he could go and get Sam out of here as quickly as possible. His little brother sure didn't need to be reminded about the death of the girl he'd loved yet again. Not like this. It had taken Sam long enough to accept the fact that he hadn't been the one responsible for Jessica's death. Or at least Dean hoped that he'd accepted it. This right now…it had to feel like a kick to the guts to Sam. His face showed it, too.

But he had himself under control, more or less, only the sudden lack of warmth in his voice, his mannerism, showed Dean that he was having a hard time pushing past the information he'd just been given.

"You told your lawyer that?"

Short and straight to the point now even though Dean could feel that he was trying real hard.

"No…I mean, yes. But he told me to keep this to myself… I don't know why I'm even telling you this."

Mark hung his head again and Dean decided that it was time for him to take over again. Sammy had reached a dead end, most likely, didn't know how to proceed anymore. The sympathy gone but still too damn polite to really snap at the guy and tell him his mind.

"Ok…so let's just go over this again, shall we? You started getting angry at her for no apparent reason? Nothing at all? I mean…did you fight about something, anything at all…maybe she found out you were cheating on her…"

"I was NOT cheating on her! She was the most beautiful woman in the world, I loved her…I would have never…I never did cheat on her, ever since we first met!"

There it was again, this uneasy feeling in Dean's gut, what Sam would usually call gut-feeling, most fittingly, which Dean hated because this time it was telling him that this guy was telling the truth, even though his behaviour suggested otherwise.

"So what did you get angry about? Did _she_ have an affair, maybe, flirt with another man…go behind your back?"

Mark was deflated again, going up and down at an amazing pace and another tear slipped down his pale, red spotted cheeks.

"No, she wasn't. It wasn't anything like this…it was stupid really, you wouldn't believe me anyway…"

When neither Sam nor Dean took the bait, he decided to go on.

"It was…stupid things, like the lasagne was not meaty enough, the pasta too salty. She left her bra on the chair next to the bed and I went berserk. She'd tell me about her day and it frustrated me to no end that she wouldn't shut up, even though she always does…did tell me about her day, then I tell…told her about mine. And she was never one to talk incessantly or something like that. As a matter of fact, I used to love her talking, her voice…"

Again he paused, but there was a new determination in his voice now, overriding the broken pain, fuelled by the need for them to understand, to believe him.

"It was almost like I wasn't myself anymore, as if someone else was taking over, someone that made me say those things, do those things…someone made me kill her…at first, it was as if I was still watching myself, kinda like from the outside, you know? But then…then I just lost control."

Dean leaned forward again but was beat to the question by Sam, who seemed to have gotten his composure back as well. Both their hunter's instincts had kicked in almost simultaneously, both sensing that this might indeed be their kind of gig.

"When exactly did you…start to lose control then. When did it all start?"

"I don't know…about a week before…no, less then a week…4, 5 days maybe…yeah, that sounds about right. I remember because we've been to visit friends in the city and we were having a great time, doing some karaoke and laughing our heads off. But then on the way back home…we were walking to the train-station, Back Bay, it's just about a 20 minutes walk from our friend's apartment and we needed the exercise…we were jumped, some _girl_ pushing me down and I thought she wanted my wallet but then she ran off before she'd gotten a hold of it. She didn't hurt us…I only got away with a scratch on my neck, she never even touched Emily. Back home Emily,…she just cleaned the scratch, put a band aid on it. Telling me how brave I'd been, how she loved the way I'd fought the gal off, even though it had been nothing really, I never really even got a chance to defend myself, she was gone again so fast. Well, that was the first time I…snapped at her. For no apparent reason…she was kind of flattering me right then after all…but still. After that, it just got worse and worse."

"Did anything else happen, anything unusual, around that time? Any strange sounds, smells, strangers,…did you have trouble with the electricity in your house, maybe?" Sam asked carefully.

Mark furrowed his brows, a tinge of irritation creeping into his voice.

"Electricity? What does that have to do with anything?"

"Just humour me, would you? Any strange flickering of lights, statics on the radio, the TV?"

"No…no, not that I remember. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"And you snapped back out of it right after you killed your wife…" Dean stated blandly, not intending to be rude, really, only too deep in thought to colour his voice differently.

That hurt, and Dean could feel it the minute he'd said it, could see it too in the sudden hardness that crept into Mark's features as he addressed him through suddenly cold eyes. His throat was working hard and for a second Dean thought he could see the hatred in them that he hadn't thought possible from his former soft and broken look.

"When the police shot me…yeah."

Something had changed in his demeanour, subtly yet suddenly and Dean shot a quick look over at his brother to reassure himself that he wasn't imagining things. A small nod from Sam told him that he'd been right.

"And there is nothing you remember from the killing…nothing until a few days before, when you pretty much _lost control_ as you called it."

"Yes…no…only bits and pieces. Little flashes…nothing in particular…" he rolled his head and shoulders distractedly, looking away from them, Dean noticed, not locking eyes with them anymore. Was he lying, trying to hide something?

"Listen…I'm really tired…shoulder's hurting… Can we just end this now?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, again attempted to rub at his face, a low growl escaping his lips when again he was reminded that he couldn't reach it the way he was bound.

"Now, _Mark_, why don't you give us another couple of minutes of your time and we'll go ever the whole story again…just so we make sure we didn't miss anything?"

Dean leaned forward, seriously invading personal space without touching, trying to pressure the guy a little, see through the cracks slowly appearing in his armour.

"Already told you everything I remember…why don't you back off now…do I even need to talk to you? I already went over all of this, like, a million times before…"

The edge creeping into his voice becoming more and more audible now. Which of course only served to spur Dean on some more.

Sam leaned back, giving the stage to his brother. Silent understanding again, years and years of working as a team, of smoothing working processes enough to make them tune into each other without words. Dad would have been so proud of them. He'd never quite learned to work in a team himself. Looking at the dozens of people he'd pissed off in his life, the many, many fallouts he'd had_, _there really was no doubting that little fact. But he trained his boys well. Or maybe they'd trained themselves…learned themselves through the countless times that they'd been left to fend for themselves.

"Well, then, if you've gone through it a million times before, one more won't hurt now, will it? Can't take too much concentration then and we'll be out of your face in no time."

Dean smiled sweetly at him, giving his face this innocent _I can do no harm_ look that contradicted the tone of his words with frightening clarity.

Mark writhed, then suddenly stilled, muscles tensing and Dean could feel Sam straightening next to him.

"I said I don't want to anymore."

"And I believe I said that I don't really care…"

The charge came with such suddenness, that even the experienced hunters didn't have the time to react.

Mark's head whipped up, his eyes deep red around impossible dilated pupils, it almost looked as if they were bleeding inwardly.

Dean still sat angled forward and before he could push himself backwards and away from the man in front of him, Mark was upon him, slamming into him with his full weight, toppling Dean's chair backwards and crashing them to the floor with sickening force. Dean had barely had time to bring his hands up in front of him but now they were squeezed in between his own body and the body of the man on top of him and he had no chance of breaking his fall ever so slightly. He felt the back of his head connecting with the cold tiles of the floor with a sickening thump and then the full weight of Mark Bowers landing on top of him, momentarily driving all the air from his lungs.

There was the distinct feeling of something sharp pressing into the soft flesh of his right forearm, but he couldn't really be sure anymore as a sudden black curtain draped itself over his eyes and any try to shake it off failed as he lost himself in the smothering fabric of it.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Tbc

_AN:_

_OK, I now this was a bit of a slow chapter, but I needed to establish a few things and this was the only thing that made sense. I just hope I didn't bore you to death and stop you from reading the chapters to follow… Don't be too harsh, I'm working on it, I promise!_

_You know the drill…make my day and review if you like. (you might make me feel just a bit less nervous… ;-)) _

_The next chapter is actually already done and I'll post it within a couple of days if you like. Please let me know and thanks for reading!_

_Take care!_


	3. Chapter 3

_As promised, here's that quick update I was talking about!_

Chapter 3

Dean was out for no longer than five minutes and while Sam knew that the bump on the head couldn't have been all that serious it still had him worried.

He'd hardly managed to drag Mark off of his brother, the man apparently possessing some weird kind of inhuman strength, clawing at Dean's unresponsive form, basically spitting venom. It had taken more out of Sam that he would have though necessary, he'd actually had to press strong fingers into the guy's shoulder-wound, making him cry out in pain and letting go of Dean for only a second before he was able to pull him off, arms wrapped around his chest, falling backwards with him on top before being able to flip himself around, pinning the still raging and growling man underneath him.

He'd knelt over him, daring to glance backwards only briefly to check on his brother, when Mark again bucked underneath him, almost throwing him off. Only almost, though. Sam had wanted, more than anything, to clock the man one, pull him to his feet and tie him up and find out what the hell had just happened, but he hadn't been given the time.

Apparently the guards out in the hall had heard the commotion and within seconds the door to the interrogation room burst open, a handful of men swarming in, taking over so fast it almost made Sam's head spin.

But it was just as well, because he really, really needed to take care of Dean now. One of the guards had knelt down next to his brother and Sam couldn't have anybody else touching his brother, he didn't want anybody near him when he was hurt. He was the one supposed to take care of him, the one to be there when he came to again. And that didn't only have sentimental reasons, unfortunately. Because, as sure as anything, Dean waking up and finding a stranger looming over him would certainly end up with the guard having a serious, serious problem concerning his health.

Sam knew that much.

"It's Ok, I've got him."

He relinquished his hold on Mark, not even bothering to look back as the guards roughly pulled the man up and out of the room, out of the way and rushed over to his brother's side, not caring that, to the eyes of those guards it might have looked a bit funny, a federal agent going all protective and gentle and _touchy_ on his partner, because that was what they were supposed to be after all.

To hell with it.

"I'm calling the medic." The man next to Dean said, pulling himself up and, eyeing Sam a little suspiciously, backing out of the room.

"Yeah…no…you don't need to…I've got him." Sam mumbled to no one in particular as he went down on his knees next to Dean's head, carefully trying to access the extend of the damage.

So, go with the program…first check: breathing. Which was there and strong and alright. Good. Next step: pulse…a little quick but alright as well.

Next he carefully pushed a hand behind his brother's head, lifting and turning it a little to the side, long fingers expertly feeling for the telltale bump or even the feel of blood on Dean's scalp. Those readings came back positive, unfortunately. A large spot, a little tender to the touch now but which would soon turn into a bump the size of a baseball, most likely. But only a little blood, fortunately, only a small contusion, nothing that would require stitches, at least.

Sam pulled off his jacket, bunching it up and pushing it underneath Dean's head so the wound would rest softly before going over the rest of Dean's body.

His face looked fine besides a split lip where probably Mark's forehead had connected with it, but again it wasn't all that bad. Not even a scratch in the _Winchester book of injuries to worry about_.

As a matter of fact, the only thing a little more serious seemed to be his hand, the right one, where Mark had managed to claw a pretty deep and long and ragged cut into the back of his hand, extending to a little ways over his wrist. Probably had ripped it with his fingernails, Sam hadn't seen anything he could have use d as a weapon, even though the wound was pretty deep for something like that.

Ok, so not good, maybe, but not too bad either. Now Dean only had to wake up so they could get out of here before someone got the idea to question them about what happened too much. Or, god forbid, call an ambulance or something the like. They really didn't need the attention that would draw to them.

Sam pulled off his brother's tie, opening the first button of his dress shirt, giving him space to breathe, smiling as he used the hated piece of attire to wrap around Dean's hand and stem the blood-flow.

Dean would love this, no doubt.

"Dean…hey Dean. Ready to wake up for me now? Gotta get you out of here and I don't think that you'd like me to carry you… Just imagine what people would think!"

He chuckled at his own joke, settling Dean's hand on his stomach before putting his own to his brother's face.

"Come on now, dude…you've had worse hits to the head than this. Don't go all concussed on me now, alright? Just wake up and look at me, what do you think?"

He pinched Dean's cheek softly, not wanting to hurt but really needing to get him up and alert again before too many people got wind of the little incident.

Finally, Dean stirred. He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed into Sam's palm for a second before he became aware enough and pulled away from the touch again, making Sam wince as he realized that Dean would not allow himself to lean into something, anything, to allow himself the comfort of just a simple touch when awake and aware. It somehow didn't seem right and even though he knew that it wouldn't change anything Sam didn't let him pull away this time, followed him and kept contact until Dean's lids fluttered open, blinking rapidly a couple of times, like waking up from a long nap, taking a couple of seconds yet to focus.

When he finally had, his gaze settled on Sam's face, looking at him blankly for so long, Sam feared that something might not be alright, that that hit on the head now finally had been one too many.

"What now…you gonna ask…or not?" Dean finally rasped out and Sam furrowed his brow in confusion.

"Ask what?" he asked cautiously, flicking an eye over to the door to see if someone else was standing there, prone to witness whatever his brother was going to tell him, not sure if Dean remembered where he was or what had happened, making sure that there wasn't too much information given out to the wrong people.

"Thought you were gonna propose to me…the way you hold my face gently in your hands and all…"

"Jerk…"

Sam barely resisted the urge to give Dean's head a little shove, remembering his concussion at the last second and settled on flicking his nose with thumb and forefinger instead before pulling away. Still he had to smile, a mixture of amusement and relief as he hauled himself back up to his haunches, watching Dean struggling to push up onto his elbows, taking a moment to adjust himself.

He knew he didn't need to ask the most obvious question and sure enough it only took Dean a second to answer to the unvoiced inquiry.

"'s alright, Sammy, takes a larger man to take me down…"

"Yeah…well, he took you down alright. How's your head…feeling dizzy, nauseous?"

Sam took a hold of Dean's elbow and helped him sit up, leaning against the wall for support a little before getting to his feet entirely.

"Nah…I'm fine…just a little headache is all. What happened to my hand?"

He held the offending limb up in front of his eyes, a little too closely maybe, Sam couldn't help think, but then again, a little double-vision was only normal after that kind of bump to the head.

"I think he cut you…might have been aiming for something else but your hand, though. You're lucky it was in the way."

"My hands are never in the way. They are always exactly where they are supposed to be." Dean quipped, his face lighting up in a grin as he detected that the cloth wound around the bleeding gash was in fact his oh so beloved green and yellow striped tie.

"Darn, now I gotta trash the thing…too bad."

"Yeah, I bet you're heartbroken. But you know, I might get you a whole dozen for your birthday if you are a good boy..."

"You do that, Sammy, and you might just find yourself dangling from the ceiling from one of those things before you even know it."

Sam smirked, bent down to pick up Dean's jacket. At least his brother bantering and teasing meant that he really wasn't all that bad off.

"So, you ready to get out of here before we have the whole damn place swarming with people?"

"Yeah, I guess…where is Mark?"

"They took him away…I don't really know."

"I guess this now really proves to show that he's, well, a little unbalanced, doesn't it?"

"Looks like it. But we do have a little more to go by now. Think this might really be worth looking into. You wanna lean on me while walking?"

He asked it so casually, tone of his voice never changing, that he almost got Dean stumbling over the question, almost answering him back like it was the most normal question in the world.

"Man, aren't you a touchy-feely one today. If you wanna cuddle, I'd rather not do it in here, though, who knows who might be watching."

Sam laughed at that, following Dean out into the hallway and towards the exit. Keeping a far enough away to let Dean walk by himself without feeling crowded yet close enough to catch him should he fall.

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

"Would you stop doing that and let me do my work now, jerk…"

Sam pulled the laptop out of Dean's grasp for about the third time in just as many minutes, closing the lid with an impatient flick of his wrist, turning a glaring eye on his brother.

"Just wanted to do some research while you go all Florence Nightingale on me."

"Great, thanks Dean, but right now I'd rather you keep holding that bag of ice to your head and let me stitch up that cut on your hand. We can take care of the research later."

Dean whined something unintelligible before picking up the cloth filled with ice cubes again, dropping his chin to his chest with a slightly exaggerated sigh to hold it to the back of his head with his left while keeping his right on the table to give Sam easy access.

"You still feeling alright? Any dizziness, double vision, nausea?" Sam asked, laying out the instruments he needed to stitch up his brother's wound as if on autopilot, the movements automated by countless times of doing it in the past.

"Yes, no, no and no. Even though, I do have some trouble hearing properly apparently…"

At that Sam perked up.

"Yeah…I kinda think I heard the same questions a couple of times before! Pretty sure I answered them, too, but I must be wrong because you wouldn't ask me twice. My brother would trust me to tell him the truth the first time around, right?"

"Right, because you're always so forthcoming with information like that, especially when not feeling alright…." Sam grumbled and began cleaning the wound gently, wiping away any fresh blood still seeping from the wound, carefully scratching away the blotches of already dried fluid.

Dean perked his eyebrows, shrugging his head a little to the side. The closest to an admittance of truth as he was going to get, Sam knew.

"So, the answer stays the same?"

"Yeah, stays the same. I'm fine, really. Just, you know, a bit…headachy…but I'll live."

"That's not even a word, Dean."

"Still understood it, though, didn't you, college boy."

"Spent too much time with you, dumbass. Now shut up and hold still, I'm gonna get started now."

Sam once again wiped his fingers with one of the alcohol wipes from their first aid kit before picking up the curved needle and coarse black thread, carefully placing the first stitch into his brother's skin.

The first always the worst, even after doing it so many countless times before, but he thought he'd never get used to sticking something pointy and sharp into someone else's flesh, least of all his brother's, even though he knew that he only did it to help. It still had this terrible feel of _wrong_ to it, this feel that he shouldn't be causing Dean any more pain. Hell, most people couldn't even _think _about administering a shot to someone else or themselves, stitching someone up was _so_ definitely out of the question.

But he knew that this was vital, a skill that their dad had trained them to do long before Sam even learned how to drive, for crying out loud. And, secretly, Dean had let him drive dad's truck when he'd been barely twelve. Only once, of course and only when dad had been gone out of town for more than a week, leaving both cars behind for whatever reason. Because there would have been no way in heaven or hell that Dean would have let him drive the Impala. Ever. He barely let him drive her now, as a matter of fact.

Sam never lifted his eyes from the task at hand, kept his fingers calm and steady, his breathing even. Dean never budged, not once. Sure, the injury nothing compared to what they usually dealt with and still…it had to hurt, it always did, even the most minor cut still hurt when being closed again. Unfortunately, his brother did have as much experience in being stitched up as he had in doing it to someone else, they both had.

They both had developed individual approaches to dealing with it, too.

While Sam would close his eyes and try and talk his way through it, distracting himself with a swell of words that meant both nothing or everything, Dean usually closed himself off, spacing out almost. He'd sometimes run through lists in his head too, he'd told Sam once, putting up supply lists, doing a mental rundown of their weapons, counting monsters and ghouls killed during the last month. Singing, too, or humming in his head. While Sam knew that it worked best for Dean like this, he still never got himself to like it, never getting used to the sudden stillness, the eerie quiet that overtook his otherwise constantly _noisy_ and _in motion_ big brother.

And because it almost hurt himself as much as Dean simply to administer the hated treatment, Sam couldn't keep quiet for long. The cut was _only_ about 15 stitches long but at number 6 he already cracked, clearing his throat a number of times before he couldn't hold himself back anymore.

"So…what do you think? Skin walker or possession, or simply a crazy man finally snapping?"

He felt Dean jump at the sudden intrusion of his voice, the rough pull from his concentration, felt the skin underneath his fingers twitch a couple of times before he had himself under control again. Without looking Sam knew of the irritated and rapid blinking of heavy eyelids, the slightly confused look on his face that took about ten years off his brother's face but adding another ten to his eyes in the process.

Sam hated that look.

Sometimes it just was so much easier letting Dean pretend, knowing suddenly that the front was not only for Dean to be able to go through this.

Another two stitches and Dean finally answered.

"Don't know about the skin walker…hard to tell without knowing him. Besides…he was caught red handed, so to speak. And he never denied it, either…"

"So, if he was a skin walker he'd try to safe his _skin_ now…because it would still be him and not the _original_ getting punished. And then…killing himself probably wouldn't have been the way to go either, right?"

Dean nodded, lowering the almost melted bag of ice back onto the table, watching as Sam tied off the last stitch.

"Flex your fingers for me…" Sam prompted.

When Dean had done that and Sam was satisfied with the result he put needle and scissors aside.

"So, what else…a witch, maybe…maybe he was cursed…or maybe possessed…" Dean mused.

Sam wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs, detecting the slight shiver, quenching it before it could turn into a full on flutter. Nothing to it, really. Just a minor injury. He'd seen and tended to so much worse…

"Could be. I don't know…the way he just snapped all of a sudden…did you notice anything unusual, anything, like, eyes flashing black, that kind of thing?"

Dean lifted an eyebrow at him, his face showing irritation at the question.

"Don't you think I would have mentioned that little fact? Besides, you were right there next to me the whole time, breathing down my neck. How come you didn't notice anything? I was kinda busy trying to fend off the crazy guy."

Sam just cocked his head at the slight edge in Dean's voice, stopping his brother from removing his injured hand from the table.

"Keep that still for moment, will ya. Still need to wrap it up."

Dean grumbled something, kept still, but Sam could feel the tenseness of muscles underneath his palm as he spread some antibiotic cream over he wound, then expertly wrapped a roll of gauze over hand and wrist up to mid-forearm, fixating it with two strips of tape before gently padding his brother's forearm, giving him leave to go.

Dean got up from the chair then, walking over to the small kitchenette to grab a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, downing the whole bottle with two large gulps.

Sam's eyes stayed on his brother's back for a second before he started clearing away the remains of his administrations, throwing bloody pads of gauze and the cut off rest of the medical thread away, putting everything else they still might be able to use back into their battered kit.

Somehow the mood had shifted a bit, he couldn't really explain it, probably just an unreasonable feeling and Sam decided to ascribe that to the after-effects of this afternoon's incident and stress and decided to let it slide. For now. He searched for the bottle of Tylenol, opened the child-proof cap and shook two pills out into his hand.

"How many you want?" he asked, knowing Dean would know what he was talking about. His head had to be hurting, Sam just needed to figure out how badly.

Dean crunched up the water bottle, throwing it into the wastebasket next to the sink, taking another one. No need to tell him that they could have refilled that, Sam decided. They still had plenty right now.

"Gimme two." Dean said, not coming to him, though, still keeping his back to him.

Sam nodded to himself, shook another pill out and walked over to his brother's side.

Another thing he'd learned over the years. Ask Dean how many pills he wanted, then add at least another one to the number given. If lucky, it would come close to being the right dose, then.

Wordlessly he let the pills drop into Dean's gauze-wrapped palm, watching his brother swallow them unquestioningly, washing them down with the rest of the second bottle of water. Apparently, Dean knew about the rule, too.

"I think we should check out the house tonight, make sure that the police didn't miss anything. If it was a witch, we might find some kind of hex-pack or symbols or something else the police might have missed. Besides, _we_ know what to look for, right?"

Dean nodded, rolled his shoulders, dropping his head back before biting back a sigh and rolling his chin to his chest again.

"I say, we grab an hour or so of sleep before we head out…still too light out to attempt a break-in. the house is probably still sealed up…"

Again Dean only nodded and went over to his bed, the one by the door, easing himself onto the mattress, dressed as he was.

For a moment, Sam just stood there, dumbstruck, long fingers irritably scratching at his neck, waiting for something, anything. Getting nothing.

Finally, he shrugged it off, striding over to his brother bed, pulling the comforter off his own and spreading it over Dean's already prone form. He peeled himself out of his jeans and shirt and snuck underneath his blankets clad only in his boxers and t-shirt. The clock on the beside table glowed 5.48 PM in angry, bright red letters. He figured that about 3 to 4 hours of sleep sounded good enough.

Then they'd go check out Emily and Mark Bowers' house.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Tbc

_AN: _

_S__o, first off, thanks for the really nice and encouraging reviews, I really appreciated them and I sincerely hope I answered all of them!_

_Secondly, hope I'm not going too slow or anything, but I need the details, this little in-between chapter…__I don't want to rush this story too much. And it's always nice to have the boys take care of each other. _

_But in order to keep you with me I can promise you the next update real quick, say, the weekend, if you like to read on, that is!_

_You know the drill…puleeeaaase let me know what you think, it really helps my nerves to calm down a lot! I pressure myself an awful lot, and I know that I can never reach up to my previous story, but I'm trying real hard so please bear with me, alright? _

_Thanks so much and till very soon, promise!_


	4. Chapter 4

_Here we go, a new chapter. It's a little longer than the last, hope you don't mind ;-)_

From this dark room

Chapter 4

The search of the house turned up nothing.

Zilch, nada, nichts, absolutely nothing.

They'd been lucky enough that the building hadn't been triggered with a high security alarm system, like most of the other houses in the area so picking the lock had been a piece of cake. Even for Sam, who usually was more than content to let Dean handle something like that, but his brother's hand was not completely up to the task yet.

They'd gone through the whole house, checking every corner, every doorframe, underneath every carpet and sofa and even underneath the bed in the master bedroom, which was still covered in the dried remnants of the bloodbath that had occurred there less than a week ago.

They'd gone through every closet, drawer and cupboard, both thanking all the gods that were willing to listen that the house was rather small and very well kept, well…at least until they'd been finished with it, that was, but still they'd turned up…right – nothing.

Nothing but a row of pictures on the mantel of the fireplace, all of them meticulously picked up, the glass broken and Emily's face smeared with blood before it had been replaced to its designated spot again.

Which was confusing, to say the least, the way her image had first been desecrated, then carefully, almost lovingly been put back to its usual place. Almost as if he'd cared. The smears of blood could have been both an attempt to disfigure her face or stroke it gently, marring it in the process without actually wanting to.

The house had not given anything away and now, almost two hours after breaking in, they made their way back to the Impala which they'd parked a couple of streets away to keep from raising suspicions.

They walked side by side, shoulders almost touching, both deep in thought.

Dean felt better, despite the strength consuming search they'd just completed, his spirits lifted again after feeling so utterly drained right after Mark Bowers' little attack. Amazing, what barely three hours of sleep, drug induced or not, could do to you, wasn't it?

And he marvelled at how easy it had become for them to find their rhythm again, barely a couple of minutes passing after getting up before slipping right into their routine again, easing off and being comfortable around each other once more.

The silence now still not weighing heavily, like so many times in the past, each of them merely thinking this through, trying to figure out what exactly was going on here.

Dean knew that, logically speaking, there still was no prove that this was anything but a mere natural act of human madness, nothing but a shockingly simple act of insanity, the supernatural nothing to do with it.

Only that he knew, deep down, that it was. It was their kind of gig and they just needed to figure out what creature was causing it. That, and finding a way to stop it. But one step after the other. Couldn't very well learn how to run before being taught how to walk, right?

They reached the Impala and out of habit Dean made his way over to the driver's side, digging into his pockets for the key, frowning when he couldn't find it in either his jacket pocket or his jeans. It took a few seconds before he remembered that Sam had driven here, Dean not even fighting him over it, actually voluntarily relinquishing the wheel to his little brother.

Well, he'd still been kind of groggy back then, the Tylenol still coursing through his veins, sleep still clinging to his brain-loops.

He was fine now.

"Sammy, keys…" he demanded, holding out his hand, waiting for his brother to toss them to him without looking up.

Only, Sam didn't oblige.

"I'm driving, Dean. Your head's still not clear enough, and your hand's too stiff. I've got it."

Something in his brother's tone threw Dean off, some tinge of smugness, of malicious joy almost, at Dean's condition. A flash of…_something_ in Sam's eyes before he averted them again, the faint light of the moon above not enough to reveal anything more clearly and by the time Sam looked at him again it was gone just as quick as it had come.

"I'm good, Sammy. I'll drive."

"No Dean, you won't. Come on, you've just hit your head real hard, you do have a concussion, even though it might just be a light one. Don't be stubborn and let me drive, alright? I promise not to crash her."

He emphasized his words with a lopsided smile and again Dean could have sworn that his little brother was making fun of him, somehow. He only didn't quite get the whole picture yet.

Finally he conceded though.

"Fine, have it your way. I'm tired anyway." He muttered, made his way around to the passenger's side and waiting impatiently for Sam to open the door for him from the inside.

Once on the road, Sam finally broke the silence that had settled between them.

"So…no hex-packs, no symbols or satanic objects, no torn off heads or bleached bones…the EMF gave off nothing and I didn't smell sulphur either, even though that smell would have most likely dissolved by now… Still I can't shake the feeling that something is not right."

"Yeah…well, maybe the embellished pictures and blood-soaked sheets might have been a bit of a giveaway there…" Dean quipped sarcastically.

Sam gave him an incredulous look, apparently trying to decide whether or not to comment on that, deciding against it in the end. Well, he better keep it to himself. The self-righteousness his little brother managed to display at times was a real mood-killer. Dean was so tired of being reprimanded all the time.

There was the one good thing about him hunting alone, he just realized. Nobody there to judge him or his action, his method of hunting, of killing, of doing research. Nobody there to tell him to watch his mouth. Nobody there to make him feel…as if he wasn't quite as capable, not entirely up to the task, not as smart or as quick or as competent…

"Dean…you even listening to me?"

Dean couldn't help but cringe at his brother's accusatory and slightly annoyed tone. Had Sam always been this bitchy?

Well, probably yes and Dean honestly couldn't understand how he'd been willing to put up with it for such a long time.

"Yeah, Sam, I'm listening." He sighed, rolling his shoulders to loosen some of the tenseness there.

Must still be sore from the fall off the chair.

"Alright, so what do you say then?"

OK, so, try as he might, he couldn't come up with one clear answer to that, the point being, that he really hadn't been listening all that well.

"Say about what? What are you talking about?"

Dean could basically _feel_ Sam roll his eyes then, and he didn't do it in this teasingly mocking kind of way, but rather the _god, why the hell am I putting up with him_ kind of way.

"I said, I don't think it's a witch…I said that I think it might be some kind of curse, a demon maybe, that feeds off people's anger. I said that I think we should try and talk to one of the other victim's family member and try to figure out if the pattern, the progress of destruction was the same as here. Maybe we can find out if the victims had anything in common, any common thread, a hobby, a shared friend maybe…something the like. I think I read something in dad's journal, that or on one of the websites I was checking out… I would need to check on it again, but I think I remember reading something that might fit the pattern…"

Sam's voice grinding like chalk over a blackboard, making Dean cringe now. The way he accentuated the word _I_ on the beginning of nearly every sentence piercing like a nail right into Dean's brain. It might just have been the concussion, the one he didn't really want to admit to having, that made him feel nauseous, just listening to Sam going on and on, telling him stuff that Dean _knew_ himself…damn it. He freaking knew how to do research. He wasn't dumb or impaired or something. He might not be as quick and as willing to sign up to hours and hours of mind-numbing boredom sitting hunched over some dusty book in a brightly lit and annoyingly _quiet_ library, but he could manage to hold his own. He'd done it about a thousand times before. By himself. Both dad and Sam gone. And he'd managed just fine.

He really didn't need to listen to this, didn't need the recap, either. He wasn't stupid, for crying out loud.

His headache was coming back now, slowly but steadily…or, on second thought, maybe not so slowly after all. The dull ache starting at the base of his skull, throbbing and squeezing, making it's way up and to the sides until he thought that even his jaw ached, if that was even possible. He lifted his hand, pressed thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, squeezing while pressing his eyes shut. The smell of the gauze-covered wound on his hand intensifying the headache tenfold since he'd used his right hand for the motion, adding a nauseating feeling to the already swirling head.

He thought he heard Sam talking still, oblivious to the discomfort he was in right now, and didn't that just fit, really. So immersed in himself he didn't even care to shut up for a single minute, goddamn it.

Dean growled, internally at least, cursing himself for all the million times when he'd been forced to be quiet, turn off his music, abandon his favourite TV-program or give up the last piece of chocolate in order to let a sick Sam see or do or eat whatever he liked. Giving in to the kids every wish, preferably before he'd even had to voice it in order to keep him content and happy and this was what he got in return?

He shifted in his seat, leaning his forehead against the glass of the window, feeling the glass cloud over with each and every exhalation. They'd apparently passed some sort of town center now, even though it couldn't have been the center of Dedham…that wouldn't have offered the various colorful neon signs that kept flashing by, burning through his closed eyelids and right into his brain.

So they probably were close to their motel already, which was situated along a long stretch of road that had been lined for miles by shops and stores and bars and motels. Of course they had chosen a motel all the way at the end of the strip, an ugly, run down thing, brown furnishing and carpet and even brown tiles in the bathroom. But it was cheap. And it offered the solidarity they preferred. Only that right now Dean would have really wished that they'd chosen one closer to the town, for he didn't think that he was going to make it all the way back to the place anymore.

His stomach was rolling, pressure rising up towards his chest, the throbbing in his head almost blinding by now and he finally gave up to try and hold himself together and upright and simply folded forward, the heel of his right hand still pressed against his forehead with fierce force now, oblivious of the strain this brought to the stitched wound, bending over till his left arm, clenched around his abdomen, got stopped by his thighs.

He was pretty sure he hadn't called out to Sam, though and it did come as kind of a surprise when suddenly a hand clamped down on his shoulder, gripped him tight. He though he might have tried to shrug away from it, but maybe not. He was too busy trying to keep the remnants of the dinner they had in the car on the way over to the house inside his body for as long as he could.

The Impala swerved, then stopped as Sam pulled the car over to the shoulder of the road, bringing it to an abrupt stop.

Dean wanted to open the door and just stumble outside, throw up for all it was worth, but his head was spinning and he couldn't pry his hands away form either his forehead or his stomach to accomplish it so he just stayed where he was, praying that Sam would get the message. He couldn't be sure if he had, though, until again strong hands grabbed him, this time from the other side, the side where the passenger side door was and while he still kind of wondered how that was even possible he was pulled out and turned away from the car.

His knees buckled and he felt them hitting rough gravel as he sank down on them as already the first heave shook him, propelling him forward and again he had no idea why he didn't hit the ground like he knew he should by the laws of nature, since his hands were still right where he'd put them in the car, muscles not able to readjust to catch his falling body, but he didn't, and that was all that mattered now.

For an eternity he wasn't able to bring anything up, which was ridiculous, really, since he could basically feel it, right there at the back of his throat, yet refusing to budge. When it finally did happen, it at least brought relief. For the longest time he just retched and coughed and retched some more, his eyes watering, out of breath. He was shaking, he realized, but to his immense relief he could actually feel the heaves lessen finally, subsiding first to a dull choke before ebbing off altogether.

Amazingly enough, along with the nausea, the headache retreated as well, not completely, but it did weaken down to something remotely bearable.

It was then that he felt his body being shifted backwards, letting him rest his ass back against his heels, finally, easing the sense of vertigo that had accompanied the awkward position he'd been in. Now, finally, he was not only able to drop his arms, they pretty much dropped all by themselves and he realized that Sam was there, right behind him, supporting his back against his own chest, holding him upright, not letting him fall.

Sam had been there…he'd been there. Sam had helped him. He _had_ cared after all…right?

At least the incessant babbling had died down now, or maybe Dean just failed to hear it through the ringing and throbbing of his own heartbeat reverberating in his ears, but it was just as well. Quiet the only thing acceptable right now.

Sam shifted behind him, twisting a bit, jostling Dean in the process but a few seconds later something nudged his shoulder and when Dean opened his eyes there was a bottle of water seemingly floating in front of his eyes. He nodded, grabbing onto it, grateful for once that Sam's hand, which was apparently attached to the bottle after all, didn't let go, helping him to tip the opening towards his mouth, supporting him.

He took a couple of swigs, rolling the liquid around in his mouth some before spitting it out, trying in vain to rid himself of the acrid taste. When it didn't work, he just swallowed the rest of the water down in big gulps, feeling his muscles relax gradually, the shaking dying down, the cold sweat he'd broken out in drying on his clammy skin.

Dean would have been good with just staying like this for quite a while to come yet, even though his butt kinda hurt being wedged onto his heels like this, but he would have been more than willing to look over that little fact.

Only Sam didn't seem to be too intent on holding onto him this long. Yeah, the kid most likely bursting by now with all those words he'd been forced to keep to himself during this little episode.

"Hey…Dean. You alright now? Wanna get up?"

_No…no he didn't. He was fine right where he was, thank you very much._

Instead he nodded, let Sammy haul him to his feet and actually managed to carry most of his own weight for the two or three steps back to the car where Sam let him drop down onto the seat, legs still outside.

His brother crouched down in front of him then, a hand lightly on his knee, staring up at him imploringly, lips pressed into a tight line.

No doubt trying to articulate all those accusations and smart remarks of how he sure would have been able to drive, how he was doing oh so fine, apparently. Not saying it, yet, but Dean knew, he simply knew what was going on in that huge head of his', and again he could feel his irateness growing. He couldn't even give him a fucking break now? After he'd just puked his goddamn guts out?

Dean ran his hand over his lips, wincing a little as the pressure tore at the stitches.

Sam reached up, plucked the bandaged hand away from his face, placing it into his lap, holding onto his forearm like he was some kind of invalid, not being able to know what was good for him and what wasn't.

Dean felt his irritation grow, fisting his hand, muscles jumping underneath his skin, fighting against Sam's grip.

"Easy, Dean…just take it easy, alright?" Sam's voice soft and soothing and that just made matters even worse, for whatever reason.

"Let go of me…" he forced out between clenched teeth, willing his voice to stay low and emotionless when he felt like lashing out, pushing Sam away to get him _off of him. _

Sam looked as if he'd slapped him. Straight into the guts.

Dean felt a faint tinge of _wrong_, but it was gone as fast as it had gotten there and he realized that Sam, even though looking somewhat stricken, still had his hand on his arm, still digging strong fingers into his forearm, right between the end of the bandage and the crook of his elbow, holding him immobile.

"I said, let go, Sam." Already it was a little harder to keep his voice even, and Dean could feel something in his chest flutter as the anger kept boiling, like something in there wanting to get _outoutout,_ the infuriation growing despite the fact that he knew it was irrational and somehow…_wrong_.

Reluctantly, Sam eased his grip and removed his hand, still staying right in front of him though, looking at him with this…pitiful look and Dean thought he was going to throw up again, just for the sake of it.

"Dean…"

"Just…leave me the fuck alone Sam, alright…"

"Come on…don't be unreasonable. You're just…not feeling well. We should just get back to the motel and get some rest…"

Dean dropped his chin to his chest, taking a deep, calming breath. Trying to retain himself from giving in to the urge to punch Sam, real hard, yet again. This _soothing_ tone, like talking to a wild animal, as if he'd break if he talked to him any louder.

"Why don't you get back in the car and I'll drive us home…it'll just be another couple of minutes…"

Maybe, if Sam hadn't nudged his leg at that minute, hadn't gently tried to push him back into the car, Dean would have played along with it, even. Maybe he would have just gotten in and they'd made their way to their shitty room and that would have been the end of it. Only, it never really went that smoothly now, did it?

The touch of Sam's fingers against his leg felt like a bolt of electricity coursing up his body, shooting straight into his brain, setting off a firework of bright lights in his head and there was no way, no way he was going to make it through that. No way.

The next thing he knew he was making his way across the street, out of the corner of his eye he saw his brother splayed backwards in the dirt next to the car where Dean had most likely pushed him down, picking himself up and making his way to follow him.

Dean never stopped moving, crossing the two lanes till he was on the median without incident, lucky enough that it was in the middle of the night and there were barely any cars on this side of the road.

"Dean…wait, fuck…what the hell…"

Sam had to stop then, a single car on this side of the road halting his progress and Dean put out a hand, arm extended backwards without really looking at him, stopping Sam even when the road was finally clear again.

"Sam…stay away, alright. Just…give me some space goddamn it. I'm having a drink. Go home. I'll find my way back. Just… Leave. Me. Alone."

The lanes in the other direction were a little more populated and there were screeching tires and a car honking when Dean made his way across without even looking, narrowly avoiding being hit before he made it to the other side, making his way, a little unsteadily and staggering towards the entrance of the neon-signed bar at the end of a small strip mall a couple of yards down the road.

Never looking back to see if Sam was following him or not.

Never looking back to see Sam, distraught and confused and…perplexed, still standing at the side of the road, next to the Impala, one hand clenched at his sides, the other one running trembling fingers through his hair, watching his brother's retreating back.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Sam hadn't even bothered to get changed, hadn't taken the shower he'd so desperately wanted, hadn't bothered to take off his jacket even. He'd simply dropped onto one of the two rickety brown plastic chairs next to the equally rickety, brown plastic table and waited.

For the longest time he did nothing but sit there and wait, think, _thinkthinkthink_.

Alright, so his brother was moody, even on his good days he was prone to tick out every once in a while, lash out without reason, but usually he'd not physically lash out, would never touch Sam. Those occasions were reserved for those rare moments when he'd be really pissed…to hell…and lacked the words to express what was really bothering him. Like that time in the parking lot in Red Lodge/Montana. He'd been swamped by guilt and pain and hurt and, as usual, had not been able to express those feelings other than simply blow, when burying them inside hadn't been enough anymore.

This back there on the side of the road had had nothing to do with lack of words. On the contrary, it had been too many words, most likely, right there, right underneath the surface, and he had fought to hold them back, to keep them at bay. Sam knew his brother, he knew that Dean was full of emotions and feelings and a million things to say, only he never allowed himself to show those things, express those feelings.

Sam had seen the fight in his brother, had seen something that most likely Dean himself hadn't realized. He'd seen the doubt, wedged in between the angry words only to be pushed out of the way by something, some kind of anger that was not entirely new to his brother, but the intensity, the raw openness of it had shocked Sam more than he cared to admit.

They'd just been through this…had just made it past a point were every single word spoken between them was a possible trigger to disaster. Every word the possible release for another round of pain and hurt and needless anger, of facing demons that had nothing to do with the supernatural. Or maybe, not directly. No demon easily exorcised, that was.

And Sam was so tired of this. It had taken everything out of him to survive these past months, everything and more than he'd ever thought possible to be strong, be the rock, the hold for somebody else. Which had again showed him how hard it had to be for Dean, how hard it must have been for him all these years, through the worst days of their lives, right after their mom had died, through better days when their dad had still been something else but the drill master he'd later become, and through the darker days again, when their lives had been about hunting and blood and pain and nightmares day in and day out.

Compared to that those last months seemed like a walk in the park, most likely. Still they had been anything but.

And now when he thought they'd finally pulled through, they had to slip right back into even deeper water and Sam had no idea how to swim back to safety and be able to pull his brother right along with him.

Sighing, bone weary and worried Sam decided that just sitting here was just going to make him lose it completely most likely, so he turned on the TV to get some background nose and booted up the computer, got Dad's journal open next to it, doing what he knew best, what had always helped him take his mind off something too hard to fathom. He did research. Finding him someone to talk to about the former victims of whatever it was they were hunting. Hoping to find something, anything, so they'd be able to put this job behind them and then…yeah…then what exactly?

They hadn't been to Bobby's in a while now. Maybe they needed a little _family vacation_, some time to settle back down at a place they could feel safe at. Needed some home cooked dinner instead of fast food. OK, so, Bobby wasn't bound to give them that…for sure, but there was always that nice lady from the grocery store…Susan, who always made sure to bring over bowls of lasagne and casserole whenever Dean and Sam were there to visit. And even though Bobby vehemently denied it, Sam was almost sure that this Susan woman was a fairly regular guest in his house, too.

Maybe that was merely it then, the need to be someplace familiar and safe getting more and more important as their lives progressed. They weren't getting any younger after all. You couldn't be on the move forever.

God, how he wished it would be that easy. But surely even the Winchesters deserved to get it easy just once, right?

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Sam managed to wait two hours before getting up to pace for the first time. The phone lay on the table next to him, always in his field of vision but of course it just refused to ring.

He'd half expected it to ring after an hour, two at the most, Dean drunkenly demanding to be picked up, because even though it was a mere 30 minutes walk from the bar he'd disappeared in to their motel, Sam somehow doubted that his brother would be able to manage even that in the condition he'd been in when he left him. And there was no way to know how thoroughly wasted he'd be by now.

By two o clock in the morning, Sam was ready to get into the Impala and go to the bar, ready to bodily pull his brother out of there, heedless of the protests and the anger that would entail.

He decided to give it another hour then, give it until three o'clock sharp and then he'd go and get Dean back.

The last hour spent doing research, making good progress too, finding some leads, but as the hour drew to an end he got distracted more and more.

Ten minutes short of the deadline, his phone rang.

Sam had picked it up, got it pressed to his ear before the first ring had even died down.

"Dean…where the hell are you?"

The other end of the line was quiet for a few seconds but before Sam managed to ask again the person on the other end cleared his throat, laughing softly.

"Well, I guess that answers the question whether or not you know a guy called Dean Winchester, then…"

The rough, deep timbre of the voice startling Sam momentarily, shutting him up as a million different questions started racing through his mind in the course of only a second at the most. Then he had himself under control again.

"Who are you…where is Dean?" His voice hard and on edge, acting stronger than he really felt.

"Alright…let's cut the small-talk and get straight to the point…fine with me. I'm Jimmy…I kinda…got your brother here to give me his phone so I could call you."

Alright…Dean, his brother…so Dean hadn't bothered to come up with some funky cover story like he usually liked to when getting down and wasted in a bar, making up some fantastic lore about being a casting director or model agent or something the like. In those scenarios Sam usually didn't get higher up in rank than being his assistant at best. Dean giving away his real name even was kind of a testimony of his current state of confusion.

"How is he…is he hurt?"

The dread weeping into his voice, try as he might to cover it up behind a steady cover of serenity.

Again the other end was silent for a couple of seconds and Sam already was on the move, picking up the jacket he'd finally discarded an hour before, snatching the keys to the Impala off the table, moving towards the door.

"How bad is it?" he demanded more vehemently now.

"Well…there's a cast or something on his arm…no wait, just a bandage…can't see no blood on it. And his lip has this cut, but I think it's an older one already."

"Yeah…yeah, those injuries were there already when I…when he left earlier… So nothing else? He didn't get into a fight or something?"

He could almost here the guy shake his head, chuckle some more.

"My, my, you seem to have a load of confidence in your brother, dude."

Sam flinched at that.

"No…he didn't get in a fight. Didn't do anything, as far as I could tell. Only when he stumbled outside I figured I'd follow him, make sure that he wasn't getting in any car by himself… That's when I saw him go down. He's thoroughly wasted, man, that's as much as I can tell you. He told me to call _his Sammy_, so I snatched his phone and searched for your name and voila…here we are, having this lovely conversation right at the brink of dawn..."

Sam let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. So, drunk into oblivion but not hurt. It really could have been worse…or so he hoped.

"Where are you? I'll come and get him. I'm in the car already."

"We're at this bar, down the road from Westside mall…a place called _vamp's nest_…"

"You've got to be kidding me…!" Sam hadn't looked at the name of the place his brother had escaped to.

"Yeah, I know. Weird name. They serve great Bloody Mary's though! You need directions?"

"No…no I don't, I know where it is. I'll be there in ten minutes, tops."

"Alright then. Drive around back, he's at the emergency exit."

"OK, I'm on my way."

Sam started the engine, revved it up, tires spinning as he pulled out of the motel's parking lot.

"Listen…Jimmy…keep an eye on him till I get there, will ya?"

"Yeah, sure. Don't worry about it. I'll keep him company…"

"Thanks…I'll be right there. Just make sure he knows that."

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Sam pulled up outside the back entrance of the _vamp's nest_ merely five minutes later, spotting Dean the second he rounded the corner of the rough brick wall of the bar.

His brother sat on the bare ground, knees drawn up towards his body, elbows and hands propped up on his knees, head hung low, forehead resting upon his arms, hiding his face from Sam's view, most likely trying to hide from himself, too.

His whole posture radiating so much misery, it made Sam's heart clench up and ache for his brother, all the harshness of before forgotten for now.

God, how he hated seeing Dean like that. Not that he often had, Dean usually not one to get himself wasted beyond control, usually he was very good at knowing when to stop. Because it would be too big a risk. Only on some very rare occasions did he allow himself the luxury of letting go entirely.

Sam pulled the Impala up as close as possible, killing the engine. He noticed that Dean didn't even stir upon hearing his car's deep rumbling engine, which again only served to prove how thoroughly gone he really was. He'd be close to ecstatic when hearing her _purring, _as he called it when being separated from her for more than an hour at the time.

Sam got out of the car, making his way over to his brother, noticing the dark skinned man sitting on the steps next to him, now getting up and taking a step towards Sam.

At first, Sam automatically tensed at the movement, a memory of Gordon flashing before his inner eye. It looked almost as if the guy tried to prevent him from getting closer, but then he stuck his hand out, a bright smile splitting his face, white teeth shining brightly as he advanced on the young hunter.

"Hey…you must be Sam…recognized the car. Dean here used to talk about you driving his baby, a sleek black panther, he called her."

When Sam involuntarily smiled at that he added:

"Of course, he'd had about 8 beers by then, so I thought he was hallucinating, but I can see that he'd been dead serious…and only half as out of t as I would have imagined."

Sam nodded, liking the man instantly. He'd probably have enjoyed talking to him, too, had there not been this one reason the two of them had just met in the back of a small town drinking hole. He really needed to get to Dean. Now.

He slipped past the man after shaking his hand, swiftly making his way to Dean's side, going down on his haunches next to him, far enough away to give his brother a little space, close enough to be able to give comfort and assistance when needed.

"Dean…hey Dean. Think you can take a quick look at me bro, let me see that you're still alive?"

Dean groaned, mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _five more minutes_ but didn't budge.

"Come on dude…I know your head probably hurts like hell, but I gotta see your eyes…just for a second…"

Again Dean mumbled something, rolled his forehead on his arms some, finally exposing his face, one eye up and open a slit, looking up at him, a slice of green cutting Sam to the core.

"Hey Sammy…where you been…?"

Sam shifted forward a bit to better understand, chewing his bottom lip, deciding that maybe bending the truth would be alright for now. Just a little bit.

"I've been right here, dude. Just left for a little while, came right back."

"Came back to get me?" Dean slurred, but his lips tugged into a slight smile and Sam realized how absolutely wasted his brother must be to be spaced out like that.

"Sure I came back to get you. What did you think?"

"Thought you'd gotten lost…"

Yeah…still had to be seen who was the one who had gotten lost here.

"Well, I found my way back. Couldn't very well leave you here now, could I? The _vamp's nest_, dude, how ironic is that?"

Dean chuckled rolled his eyes, wincing, rolling them again.

"Yeah…that's what I told them. In there. But they didn't think it all that funny."

"Well, they don't know shit, right?"

"Right!"

Dean again buried his forehead in his arms, coughing, spitting something out between his feet.

Carefully Sam extended a hand, placed it lightly on his brother's biceps, satisfied when Dean didn't pull away, didn't even flinch. Certainly not throwing punches now.

Good.

"What do you say…you wanna get back to the motel…get some sleep?"

Dean groaned, pulled his head up, which seemed to be a hell of a lot of more work than something like this was supposed to be, barely able to hold it up.

"Dude…need a shower…I'm kinda sweaty…think I stink…hey, that rhymes…'m a poet, man!"

Sam chuckled humourlessly, scrunched up his face, feigning a sniff. Not that he needed to, it was pretty apparent his brother was transpiring more alcohol then anything else right now.

"Yeah…now that you mention it… And you might wanna brush your teeth, too."

Dean grinned lazily, dropping his head back against the wall behind him, too tired to hold it up by himself.

"Wanna gurgle." He declared and Sam could hear Jimmy behind him laugh out.

He'd totally forgotten about the man still being there.

"Found yourself some new friends?" Sam asked, tipping his head towards the black man behind him, seeing Dean follow the movement with his eyes, grinning goofily at the man.

"Told ya 'bout my baby…told ya Sammy got it."

Then, looking at Sam, he added:

"He didn't believe me…didn't believe that a white man could have a black beauty like her…told him I could have whoever I wanted."

"Don't I know that." Sam smiled, again hearing Jimmy chuckle behind him.

Dean smacked his lips then, running a lazy tongue over his cracked lips.

"I'm kinda thirsty. Maybe we could get another beer before we leave…"

"I think you've had quite enough, man. Why don't we get you up and into that black beauty of yours so we can get you into bed. What do you say?"

"You sly dog, Sammy. Always tryin' to get me under the covers. You know I don't swing that way. Jimmy, tell him I don't swing that way, will ya. He's never listening to me…maybe he'll take your word for it."

Sam had to lower his head then, trying to hide his smirk as not to encourage Dean anymore, failing miserably.

"Sorry Sammy…but you know…Jimmy's kind of an attractive guy there…"

"Ok, Dean, I think that's enough now. Jimmy is blushing already. Why don't you haul your ass up already and climb into the car so we can go before you talk us into even deeper trouble."

"Is Jimmy coming too? I promised to show him my knife collection if he didn't tell the girls that I kinda puked my head off…"

"Yeah…I guess that would have been a real killer. But I'm sure he is more than happy to get rid of your ugly mug. Looks like you're stuck with me. And I'm with you, come to think of it."

"Darn…" Dean slurred, still smiling slap happily, one of his legs flopping straight down in front of him, almost making him lose his balance.

Sam caught him, levelling him up again.

The smile had left his face very suddenly and he was back to looking miserable and on the verge of collapse.

"Wanna go home now, Sammy." He whispered and again Sam thought his heart might break at the sound of sheer _need_ and longing in his brother's voice. Knowing that this was the one thing he wouldn't be able to give his brother.

The one thing he'd never have.

"Yeah, alright…think you can get up now?"

"Might need a little help?!"

Dean dragged his fallen leg up again, leaning back against the wall and extending both arms, like a toddler asking to be picked up. It would have been hilarious, really, if he wasn't sitting in the back alley of a bar, next to some dumpsters and a puddle of what probably was his own puke. That picture kind of smacked the humour right out of Sam.

He took hold of Dean's good hand, moved over to his left and helped haul him up, then slipping one arm around his back and grabbing a hold of the hem of his jeans to not let him slip back towards the ground again.

Out of the corner of his eyes he could see Jimmy moving towards Dean's right side, wanting to help, most definitely, but again the thought of some stranger taking hold of his brother terrified Sam for whatever reason and he shook his head vehemently.

"It's alright…I've got him. I can manage. I've got him."

He could see the look of confusion that crossed Jimmy's face before he shrugged, took a step back towards the car.

"Let me get the door for you then. Front or back?"

"Front." both brothers shot out, drawing another smile out of the man as he wrenched open the door, then moved out of the way to watch as Sam deposited the almost dead weight of his brother inside who immediately slumped onto the seat, turning onto his side, then tucking his legs into the foot space of the car before closing the door gently.

Sam turned around towards the helpful stranger again, wiping his palms on his thighs as he tried to think of something, anything he could say to the man. Anything even remotely resembling how grateful he was that he'd taken care of his brother, had made sure that he wasn't mugged and left in the dirt like most others would have done, most likely.

"Well…uhm…thank you. You know…for everything. Really appreciate your help." He mumbled, suddenly uncomfortable with just leaving without looking back like he'd totally intended to.

Jimmy waved him off.

"No problem, man. He's a real show, that brother of yours…first all broody and sitting all alone, drowning himself, then being swamped by female attention all of a sudden the moment he just freaking _smiles_… Had to practically peel them off him when I realized he wasn't gonna hold his liquor much longer anymore…"

He chuckled lightly, then, as if suddenly remembering, dug into his pockets, producing Dean's phone, handing it over.

"I wanted to give it back to him but he kept trying to show me some picture of a girl he once dated…wasn't too sure that it was an appropriate one, so I snatched it off him again."

Sam smiled again, knowing that this at least wasn't true, that he only said it to lighten the mood. Well, it worked alright.

"Yeah…well, he gets kind of clingy when drunk…anyways…thanks dude. Honestly. I 'preciate it."

"Don't mention it. Now go and get him back home. And take care, alright? For both of you."

"I will…thanks. I will."

Jimmy nodded, smiled and waved a little as he retraced his steps back towards the back entrance of the _vamp's nest_, disappearing behind the heavy door.

Sam made his way back towards the drivers side of the car, slipped in, having to lift his brother's head from the seat where it was nestled practically below the steering wheel, resting it on his thigh so Dean wouldn't have to move over.

Only a short drive anyway.

"Hey Dean…just let me know if you are going to get sick, alright? Because I won't clean that up for you, you hear me?"

A faint smack of his lips was all the answer he got from Dean as he readjusted his body, nestling his head more comfortably into the _pillow_ Sam provided for him.

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

When they finally pulled up outside their room barely five minutes later, Dean was still out, but his face had paled and Sam guessed that he'd need to make a dash for the bathroom again sometime soon.

He parked the Impala as close to their room as possible, slipping out and rounding the car, opening Dean's door, gently tapping his brother's leg.

"Hey dude…come one. One more time getting up, then we're done. Need your help in hauling your heavy ass out of here…"

"'m not heavy…all muscle…look awes'm." Dean mumbled, weakly trying to lever himself on the bench seat to push himself forward, not realizing that that would be the wrong direction altogether.

"No, man, back towards me…come on, let me help…"

Sam practically pulled Dean out by his feet then, again getting a strong grip of him once he was more or less upright, then hauling him the few steps towards their door where again he struggled to keep his brother propped up against the wall next to the door while fumbling with the lock, pushing the door open with one foot while angling Dean right so he could drag him inside.

Once in Sam detained from turning on the lights and simply steered Dean towards his bed, thankful that it was the one by the door, as usual, helping Dean slide down, practically slipping down his arm and slumping onto the mattress. Dean immediately shuffled to turn over onto his stomach, squeezing his eyes shut and groaning miserably when finding out that that hadn't been the smartest move in his current condition.

Sam quickly was there again, helping his brother turn back around, stuffing a pillow under his head, disentangling his limbs until they lay in proper order again. Within minutes Dean had settled down again, breathing gradually evening out, drifting off, most likely.

Sam sat back on his own bed, trying to figure out what to do now. In a way is was much easier when Dean got hurt, then at least the course of action was dictated in advance – taking care of the injuries first, then figure out about the rest.

Now while a drunk and slightly unstable brother wasn't something entirely knew in his world Sam never really got the hang of things there. Give him a bloody gash to stitch up anytime, deal with emotional turmoil – not so much.

He huffed, shrugged off his own jacket, toeing off his shoes and grabbing a glass out of the little cupboard over the sink, filling it with water. Drenching a towel, too. There was no way that he was gonna let Dean have a shower in his current condition, as much as he preferred bloody wounds to this right now, Dean slipping and falling in the bathroom was not exactly high up on his wish-list, come to think of it. Besides, he could very well wash himself…brotherly love only went so far, right?

Dean shifted in his sleep, drawing a heavy arm over his eyes, mumbling something under his breath.

Sam deposited his things on the nightstand, turning on the small bedside lamp, carefully angling the direct light of the bulb away from his brother's face before starting to ease off Dean's boots, leaving the socks on, knowing that Dean would complain about cold feet when waking up. He always did when drunk, for whatever reason.

It used to crack him and dad up to no end, back when they were still hunting together and Dean coming back completely wasted after a night at a bar, Dean lying there with about 4 pairs of socks on, the room about a hundred degrees and steaming, yet he would exaggeratedly wiggle his toes, claiming that he couldn't feel them anymore, that they were going to fall off from frostbite, they were so cold.

The memory still made Sam smile.

Sam decided that Dean's jeans could stay on but the shirt needed to go for sure. Some smart and slightly artistic manoeuvring finally freed Dean of the slightly ripe smelling piece of clothing but since the t-shirt underneath seemed to be reasonably clean he opted for leaving that on.

It really was damn hard undressing someone that was barely participating in the action. Whoever hadn't tried it himself had no idea.

He then wrestled to get the blankets out from underneath his brother's prone form, draping them over him, tucking him in carefully.

When he had finished, his eyes running over Dean's face again for the first time since beginning his administrations, he found Dean looking at him through barely open, too bright eyes.

"Hey…you alright? Gonna be sick? I got a trashcan right here…"

Dean didn't say anything, kept staring at him as if contemplating whether or not he should take him up on the offer.

"Where have you been?"

Alright…back to that again.

"I've been right here Dean…" Which wasn't a lie, technically, since he'd actually been right here, in this very room, the whole time, right?

"Feel kinda…drunk, I think."

"Yeah, go figure…why do you think that is?"

"Maybe I had a beer or two?"

_Try about ten, at the least. _

That plus the Tylenol he'd had before…a sure enough mixture to knock anyone out, even his brother.

"Might have been a couple more than that, Dean."

"Yeah…maybe? Where you been? Found a girl that might be willing to…"

"Shut up, dude, I don't wanna hear about it, alright?" Sam scoffed softly, weakening the statement with a lopsided smile.

"Told her you weren't into that kind of thing…" Dean sighed resignedly.

His eyes closed again, hand creeping up towards his chest underneath the blanket, grabbing a hold on his amulet, Sam knew. He'd seen him do it a couple of times while asleep, mostly when he was not feeling well, having a nightmare he never admitted to having later. Sam didn't know what kind of comfort his brother was drawing from the object, but it warmed his heart to think that at least something was still able to provide it for him. That it was something that he, Sam, had given to his big brother.

"You sure you are not going to be sick, Dean? Need to take a leak, maybe? Want something to drink?"

Trying to make sure that he'd covered all bases and done everything to make this easier on his brother. He'd feel rotten as hell as it was come morning. No need to add to his misery.

"Don't have anything left to bring up, dude…just tired."

"Alright, go to sleep then. I'll be right here when you need anything."

Dean nodded, turning his face into the pillow, rolling over to his side and drawing his knees up towards his chest to ease the strain on his audibly rumbling stomach.

"Don't leave again, 'lright?"

Sam cringed inwardly, feeling rotten through and though. It didn't matter what had been said and done, he shouldn't have left. He knew it.

"Nah, I won't…you won't get rid of me that easily."

"Sorry I yelled at you…won't do it again if you stay…"

"Yeah, OK. I can live with that."

"'kay. Night Sammy."

With that Dean practically dropped off to sleep, the true meaning of the saying striking Sam as he watched his brother shut off within a second.

When he was sure that Dean was fast asleep, breathing hiccupping a little every now and then but slow and steady otherwise, he took the towel he'd wetted before, placing it gently on Dean's scrunched up forehead, watching Dean's face relax a bit instantly.

Something was…wrong, off. Dean hadn't been like this for quite a while now, this self-destructing behaviour, the mood swings, the pain that lay there, hidden yet flashing out in the open time and time again. Something was bothering Dean, something so out of the ordinary that Dean didn't really have a hold on how to handle it, handle himself.

Dean again sighed, eyes working feverishly under closed eyelids, lips tugging into a frown, then relaxing again. Sam finally, reluctantly, withdrew his hand from his brother's forehead, leaving the cool cloth where he'd placed it, then he withdrew back to his own bed, slipping his jeans off his own body, leaving the bedside lamp on and facing his brother so he'd be able to be there in a flash should Dean need him.

"Night jerk…" he mumbled before finally being able to fall asleep himself, the nagging doubt rolling in the pit of his stomach not dying down completely but receding just out of his immediate reach.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

tbc

_AN:_

_As always, thanks for those who took the time to read and review, you guys are awesome, honestly! Still got a couple of those left to respond to, but I will get to it, promise!_

_Special thanks to OcherMe, you know why...consider this chapter for you, if you like. You really made me feel so much better already!_

_To everybody else - I hope you enjoyed, please review if you like and let me know what you think!!_

_thanks and take care...next pdate soon, as always!_


	5. Chapter 5

_Alright, as promised, here's that update, hope you like:_

From this dark room

Chapter 6

Sam was aware of his brother pretty much all through the night, or so he thought, aware of every shift his brother made on the mattress, every rustle of the sheets, every strained cough or gurgling snore as he slept fitfully for the first couple of hours.

Sometime in the very early morning hours Sam heard Dean getting up, heard him swearing sluggishly as he stubbed his toe on Sam's bed frame, then again as he apparently ran his shoulder into the doorframe leading to the bathroom.

While Sam opted to stay "asleep" during his brother's expedition into the bathroom he still stayed alert throughout, getting itchy when it took Dean a while to re-emerge yet not showing it when he finally did, stumbling back to his bed and pretty much passing out before he hit the pillow again.

Sam drifted off himself again afterwards, too exhausted and worry still nagging at his guts, not able to sleep too deeply himself, which was why he was more than a little surprised to be awoken by an insistent tickling and annoyingly bright sunbeam stabbing into his eye, making him groan, forcing him to turn his head away from the unbidden intrusion.

It still was way too early to get up, especially after everything that had gone down last night but sure enough, once awake, he couldn't go back to sleep anymore. He buried his face in the pillow, groaning again, pulling the pillow over his head in frustration. God, why was it that they never managed to catch a good night's sleep anymore?

At least Dean still seemed to be out…and he really should be, by all means, his little escapade from last night sure to wreak havoc on his already banged up head and upset stomach.

Then it hit him…it was way too still in the room. Sam ceased breathing for a second, not willing yet to give in to his overactive imagination and unease at the moment, willing himself to be wrong. But sure enough, there was no other sound in the room beside the low but incessant hum of the mini-fridge in the corner of the kitchenette and the even fainter sound of water dripping slow but insistently somewhere in the bathroom.

Not good.

His head snapped up and for a moment he saw nothing but bright dots of white light as his eyes got assaulted by the chipper bright sunlight streaming in through the crack in the curtain, right above his brother's bed.

Which was empty.

The sheets were crumpled and, in a very Dean-like fashion strewn all over the bed and part of the floor, but his brother was definitely not wedged anywhere in between, atop or underneath them.

Since the bathroom door was half open, the lights out, no water running, Sam could be pretty sure that Dean wasn't in there either.

_So_ not good.

He was just about to shoot out of bed to check for the car in the parking lot when suddenly the door to their room opened.

Sam was fast…diving across the foot-wide or so gap between their beds, hand slipping underneath his brother's pillow to take a hold of his bowie knife he knew to be stashed there, pressing himself against the headboard in something remotely resembling a defensive stance. Very remotely. And dressed the way he was, in boxers and a t-shirt, it might have looked even more ridiculous than he thought it did.

Which probably was the reason why he didn't really feel the whole amount of relief he should have been feeling when he realized who had just come in through the door.

If possible, Dean looked even worse than the night before, or rather, earlier this morning…pale and dishevelled, his hair sticking up at odd angles, his sunglasses pushed straight up his nose, still not able to hide the dark circles underneath his eyes completely, the usually faint freckles on his nose standing out as brightly as they hadn't in a long time.

He wore jeans, a grey t-shirt, a dark grey, long sleeved Henley and his blue canvas-jacket on top of all that, despite the fairly warm temperatures outside and still he looked slightly chilled.

A mad grin split Sam's lips suddenly when he imagined the layers of socks he was sure would adorn his brother's feet in his poorly laced up boots.

Dean only eyed him, or at least Sam thought he did because it was kind of hard to make out his eyes behind the shades, taking in Sam's slightly humiliating posture on Dean's bed with a raised eyebrow that momentarily appeared from behind the sunglasses, not commenting on it though before gently and _quietly_ closing the door behind him, depositing a brown paper bag and a carton carrying two steaming cups of coffee on the small, crooked table next to the door.

He stood there for a couple of seconds, his back towards Sam, who quickly tucked the knife back underneath the pillow, suddenly self-conscious about his slightly humiliating position, straightening his back and forcing his body to relax, coaxing his face to go along with the act if even remotely possible. It was hard going, but luckily enough Dean gave him enough time, if not to help him but most likely to figure out how to deal with the uncomfortable situation himself.

Sam got up, shuffled over to his own bed and dropped there, against the headboard, legs stretched out before him, hands knotting in his lap as he tried to think of a way to start this…or end it. Either way.

Dean still stood there, bandaged hand wrapped around one of the cups of coffee, the gauze keeping it from burning, most likely, fingers tugging at the plastic lid, worrying the little flap that needed to be peeled off in order to drink the coffee.

Finally, he lifted the cup, glasses still making his eyes unreadable as he turned towards his brother, still keeping his head slightly down though, if to keep his head from spinning or simply to avoid looking at Sam was hard to tell. He took a step closer to the bed, holding out the coffee like the peace offering it was no doubt meant to be.

When Sam didn't reach out immediately, Dean thrust his hand out a little more, not getting closer though, giving Sam the opportunity to make the final step himself, to lean forward and bridge the distance to take it, to accept his brother's apology.

Sam couldn't help it, he had to smile, painfully so, because he sure didn't revel in his brother's misery, but smiled nonetheless. His brother seemed so…sure of himself, so over-confident, almost narcissistic at times it made it easy to forget, even for Sam who knew his brother almost better than he knew himself, how insecure and self-conscious he really was, deep down. In a way that he never let anyone see, safe Sam, on those rare occasions that he couldn't keep up the façade anymore, when he either chose to or was simply forced to open the curtain a bit.

"It's vanilla latte…with some sort of flavour…I forgot…something girly… I thought you'd like that…"

He sounded a bit roughed up and he winced at the volume of his own voice and Sam finally couldn't stand it anymore. He'd never really been mad at him, how could he? He'd had a rough night…so what? They both needed to unwind every once in a while…Dean just did it…in a more self-destructive, brutal way than him, than most people. As long as he had the decency to feel rotten about it after, Sam thought he could deal with it. He was almost sure that he'd given Dean a run for his money more than once, when still a baby or later, growing up, throwing a teenage-tantrum of some sort. And back then Dean had always accepted his make-up presents and amends unasked.

Sam scooted forward, took the coffee out of his brother's outstretched hand, staying seated at the edge of the mattress, elbow on knees, steaming cup in his hands, nodding towards the bag on the table.

"Got some breakfast too?"

Dean seemed to be glad that Sam had taken this out of his hands…he nodded eagerly, then thought better of any other movement involving his head, stepping up to the table.

"Got donuts…Boston cream, thought it fit, kind of…"

He was about to turn around to hand the bag to his younger brother when Sam leaned back a little, gesturing noncommittal towards Dean's own cup of coffee still sitting on the table.

"Why don't you sit down a little, have that coffee while it's still hot?"

His voice uncertain, not sure if it had been too direct or too cheesy or too obvious…or not obvious enough.

But another couple of seconds later Dean finally complied, grabbing his coffee, tossing the bag with pastries onto Sam's bed and sitting down on his own mattress, slightly misaligned opposite his brother so his right knee rested barely inches from Sam's right.

Not taking the shades off just yet, but Sam didn't take that personally. His head had to be feeling like being worked over with a sledgehammer right now, he knew.

Sam took out a donut, took a huge bite out of it, relishing the taste of the sweet cream inside.

"Want some too?" he asked, most innocently when he noticed just one donut in the bag, offering his brother a bite, smiling a little deviously when Dean groaned, his face scrunching up and he paled and turned slightly greenish-gray all at the same time.

Yeah…so he accepted the peace offering alright…still didn't mean that he couldn't have just a little bit of fun on his brother's behalf here, right? Dean would be the first to jump on an opportunity like that, he'd understand…or so Sam hoped.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxx

About five Tylenols, a 30 minutes fairly hot shower and two additional black coffees from the in-room coffee maker later Dean was feeling remotely human again. As close to as he'd get today, he figured, but it wasn't all that bad, really, considering how thoroughly wasted he'd been.

Now, hadn't that been just amazingly stupid? Dad would so have his hide for this…if, well…he was still there to have it, that was. Which he wasn't. Besides, Dean had been his own boss for far too long already, right? No need to worry about dad anymore. The only one he needed to worry about was his brother…and, maybe himself, come to think of it, but mainly Sammy and that made his behaviour last night about a thousand times as bad.

OK, so he did get a little drunk every once in a while, drank one beer too many maybe and had a tiny little hangover the morning after. Still, he never drowned himself even remotely as bad as last night, not when on a job, hardly ever when not, even.

So, this certainly had been a bad proof of judgement on his part.

And god, did he feel rotten. Not so much physically, which, come to think of was actually pretty bad, too, but he felt terrible about treating Sam the way he had, for no apparent reason, too. Only that yesterday, the reasons had been plenty and justifiable enough, at least to himself. Thinking back now, he felt like an ass. A huge, out of proportioned one.

At least Sammy had the greatness to not bugger him about it. Even though that made the self-inflicted pity party kind of worse for him, it still felt good to know that his little brother was willing to forgive him this little slip on his part.

As further atonement, Dean had again relinquished the wheel to his little brother, something not totally unheard of lately, but certainly something he didn't do too willingly or on a very regular basis. Not that he regretted his decision at the moment as they inched their way on the Mass. Turnpike into the city, bumper to bumper with a SUV and some beat down Ford Escort which were much too close to his girl, he thought.

"Should have left her at the train station and taken the damn train…" he hissed between clenched teeth when a dark blue Honda passed them within about a finger's width, barely missing the passenger side mirror.

Sam smiled, a little grimly Dean though, his grip on the steering wheel maybe a tad too tight as he manoeuvred the huge car across two lanes to make it towards their exit in time.

"Told you…but _someone _practically clung to the front fender when I suggested it, claiming that he could never abandon _her _for a stupid, soulless train…"

Dean smirked, then jerked again when Sam barely missed a lime-green Volkswagen Beatle as he cut through the last lane, making the exit just in time.

"Didn't cling…only made sure she wouldn't think I'd leave her, you heartless man. You wouldn't just tie your dog up at the train station until you're back from town now, would you?"

The road was a little clearer now as they made their way, following the signs to their destination. Dean relaxed visibly, leaning back a little, eying the brownstone townhouses and small coffee shops passing by his window.

"Like a dog? Dude, she's a car…and it was a secured parking lot we're talking about here… Besides, Boston is really not meant for driving. We'll probably never even find a decent parking spot…"

Dean rolled his eyes, which he could again do now without fearing his head would split in two, lightly patting the Impala's door handle as if to sooth her.

"I'm sure there's valet parking _somewhere_. Besides, if we can't find anything, I could always just cruise her until you're done interviewing that Ayleen chick…"

"Her name is Amanda, Dean, and she's no _chick, _she's the dorm's security guard who found the body of the victim before Emily Bowers…a Tom Flinders. We'll see if she's got anything to add to what she's already told the police."

Dean sighed resignedly, scooting down further into the bench seat. At least they'd gotten around the suit-wearing part today, Dean simply refusing to wear his, _again_, deciding that today's cover would be private investigators from Mr. Flinders' family, which was from out of town and wanted to delve further into dear Tom's death.

Anything to avoid the torture that was called a business suit. The person who'd invented ties deserved to be salted and burned, Dean would have to remember to look that bit of information up on the internet one day, then scout the guy out and give him his mind about that…being long dead wouldn't help him, not one bit. He knew how to resurrect the dead, what better way to use that knowledge?

They finally found a decent looking parking lot that still had space enough for the huge frame of the classic car, Dean fretting over the exorbitant prices, Sam again pointing out that they could have left her at a absolutely _free of charge_ space just a twenty minutes train ride outside of town, again earning himself a unreasonable reply that he graciously chose to ignore.

They made their way towards Harvard University then, Sam's step springing ever so slightly, Dean realized, just the _feel _of college life, the little street cafes and students milling about turning Sam up a notch. The streets filling with people now, at lunchtime. It made Dean smile a little, made him a little sad, too, seeing how his brother became all _bouncy _and _geeky_ within the course of mere seconds. His gait changed, too and he seemed visibly more relaxed, more at ease. His eyes almost glittered, goddamn it, as he looked around, took it all in.

God, how he wished that he could have given Sam this…that it would have been possible for him to enjoy without making sacrifices for it…without having to break with his family in order to get _normal_, just because his father and, alright, lets face it, maybe even his big brother had been too stubborn and selfish to just let him go and be _happy_ for him.

They passed another café, slightly bigger now, dozens of students and other customers sitting on the small silver chairs and tables, eating, chatting, studying, some older folks playing chess…even the sun was shining, mocking Dean with this _perfect_ image of college life the way it looked like in all the catalogues and brochures Sam had kept stashed away under his bed during his last year in high school – Dean knew because he'd found the damn things when he'd cleaned out their room, Sam long off and gone to Stanford, when their dad and he had moved once again.

It had been the last more or less permanent home he'd had, he now realized, after Sam had left there just was no need to stay put anywhere any longer than a job required, no one bugging and whining and pleading and raging about staying a couple of more weeks, just till the end of this term, just until the end of the school year…

Dean had kept one of the brochures for a while, for whatever reason he didn't know, had kept it all the way at the bottom of his duffel until he'd dropped it into that river when hunting a not so fluffy were-cat and the paper had soaked beyond repair once he'd been bale to retrieve it again. Not that he'd needed it…it just had been something he'd been sure his brother had been looking at, had been holding on to for quite a while, probably hours on end, the way the paper had been roughed and wrinkled in places…it had felt like holding on to a tiny part of Sam's dream in keeping it.

A dream that had pretty abruptly come to an end only a couple of years later.

Dean nudged his brother now, slowing him down a bit.

"Hey…that café over there…that's where they shot Good Will Hunting, you know? The scene with Matt Damon and his girl, sitting and eating or drinking something."

He ignored Sam's incredulous look, went on undeterred.

"Did you know that Matt's father was sitting in the background on one of the tables, playing chess?"

Sam's eyebrows rose right into his hairline at that little snippet of information and while he couldn't quite pull the "one-raised-eyebrow-thing" as well as Dean, it still didn't fail to mask the mixture of surprise and amusement that Dean would _know_ something like that…and care enough to remember it.

"How come you remember that kind of stuff, but you fail to bring me the right kind of sandwich time and time again when picking up dinner?"

Dean shrugged, picked up his pace again as they crossed the street to enter the wide-spaced lawns of Harvard University.

"The important stuff stays in here…"

He tapped his temple with one finger, smirking.

"Tofu is almost like a foreign language to me…don't want to remember the gross stuff you like to eat!"

They made their way across the lawn, now dotted with people milling about, eating or studying, talking and reading, right towards the front of a large building, looking like a meeting hall almost but which, Dean knew because Sam had told him, now housed a number of meeting- and classrooms.

He had to, simply had to stop Sam from going to the library next door later, after the meeting. This didn't look to be a place he'd feel comfortable in, but would sure enough give his geeky brother a heart attack from the excitement alone.

The sun was pretty bright, reflecting off all that whitewash and brownstone, off of all those happy people, smiling with their bright, white teeth. Dean barely resisted the urge to put his glasses back on as he felt his head twinge and flutter a little behind his left eyeball. He could make it through the meeting before popping another Tylenol. No need to worry Sam…or evoke some smart remark, for that matter. It wouldn't take all that long before they were done here…

When they approached Harvard Hall's front steps Dean made out the form of a woman in her late forties, a little heavy-set but pretty enough still, wearing a security company's light green uniform, sitting casually on the steps, sipping from a bottle of coke while letting her gaze wander over the grounds lazily.

When the brothers drew closer her eyes settled on them, seizing them up for a second before getting up, taking a couple of steps towards them.

"You must be Mr. Walker and Mr. Tyler…I'm Amy Pierce."

She extended her hand, shook each of theirs in turn.

The brothers exchanged a quick glance. However she knew it was them they didn't know…the place was fairly crowded, a group of tourists touring the ground as well.

She seemed to read their interchange, laughed and gestured them towards the stairs again, sitting down with her back against the balustrade, leaving them to crouch somewhat awkwardly opposite her on the bare stone steps. Yet there was something about her that immediately made Sam relax in her presence, her mannerism almost a bit like Missouri's, aside from the freakish psychic, mind-reading powers that was and Dean forced himself to relax a bit himself, seeing that his brother had warmed to her immediately, trusting Sam's judgement on this. He was usually the one more careful around strangers, even though you'd never be able to guess it, but Dean would usually remain alert and on the edge a bit longer.

"You do look a bit like fish out of water here, I'm afraid…I do have a sixth sense with young people…been working around them students here for the past 15 years. I kinda know who belongs and who doesn't!" she said with a smile in her voice, addressing them both in turn even though her words were clearly directed at Dean.

He felt himself frown at that, slightly irritated even though he knew she was right, of course. He would never fit in here, or any place like it while Sam would be able to blend right in, he was sure of it, the minute he chose to, shedding his hunter's skin to go into full on geeky-student mode within seconds at the most. He'd proven it once before, had pretty much left everything behind to do just that, to prove himself to his family and his own self, too.

"Thanks for taking the time to talk to us, Ms. Pierce. We really appreciate it. I know it's your lunch break and all but I promise we won't take long…"

Sam gave her his most sincere smile, which probably wasn't all too hard, come to think of it and Dean leaned back slightly, again resigning himself to watch yet staying alert nonetheless, not only of their surroundings but the woman in front of them as well.

He didn't think that she posed a problem as it was, didn't think that she was likely to jump them the way Mark had jumped him yesterday, yet one could never be too sure. At the first sign of something being off he'd make sure he was in front of his little brother again, 6'4 feet or not, the little one still needed protecting, right?

"Please, call me Amy…don't make me feel like I'm a hundred years old here. Mrs. Pierce was my mother, god bless her soul…"

"Alright…Amy. I'm Sam, this is Dean. As I told you on the phone we were hired by Thomas Flinders' family to look into their son's death. We were told that you were the one who found the body?"

Amy nodded, looking a little sick.

"Yeah…it was in the middle of the night, I had the nightshift and was walking the halls of the dorm Tom lived in. He was always one staying up late, though I'm afraid to say he wasn't the studying hard kind of guy…more the party man, so I always made sure to pass by his room on my rounds, making sure that everything was reasonably quiet so the other students didn't need to complain. His girlfriend, Suzie…Miller, that was her name…a wild thing also. They spent most of their time together in his room which didn't concern me all that much, since his roommate didn't mind, never slept there much, period, so who was I to make a fuss, right? Anyway, I passed by his room that night and the door was closed, a little music on inside but it wasn't too loud so I figured they were…you know…having fun…whatever you young people are doing being up all night and such, so I walked on. When I was at the corner of the hallway, just about to turn and walk up the steps to the next level, suddenly the door to his room flew open, banging the wall real hard and by the time I turned around I saw Suzie…or at least her back as she raced off towards the other direction, out towards the front entrance in a real hurry. I called out for her, something seemed a bit of and I thought maybe they'd had a fight and Tom had hurt her or something, but she wouldn't stop, just kept running like the devil itself were on her heels. So I went back to Tom's room, door was open now, after all, peeked in and that's when I saw him…"

Her voice finally cracked and she swallowed hard, took another swig of her soda, looking out over the grounds for a second before focusing back on Dean's face, holding his eyes until he looked away, embarrassed and a little unnerved for some reason, not willing to look her into the eyes, so she switched her focus onto Sam instead, holding his sympathetic brown puppy-dogs as he nodded calmly, encouragingly, coaxing her on.

"What did you see, Amy?"

His voice this soothing, lulling cadence again and for some reason that crated on Dean's nerves more than anything else again. He felt his hand unconsciously searching his pocket for the reassuring feel of the bottle of Tylenol, holding onto it as if the feel of the smooth plastic tube in his hand alone could sooth his slowly growing headache.

Amy had collected herself again, went on.

"I…as I said, the door was open so I peered in and I found him…Tom, he was lying in a pool of blood…so much blood… I've seen one student once who'd shot himself after getting kicked out of school and I thought that that had been a gruesome sight, but Tom now…there was blood everywhere, splattered all over, like in one of those bad horror flicks showing late on Friday nights. I didn't really look too closely, I mean, there was no way he could have still been alive, his eyes were still open, you know, but I could see that he was not breathing anymore and then all that blood…"

She shuddered, suddenly drawing her arms around herself despite the relative warmth of the air around her.

Sam reached out a long arm, putting his hand on her shoulder and holding her gently, rubbing a little even, until she calmed herself down again.

"You did good…you did nothing wrong. The police reports say that he'd lost nearly all his blood by the time they got there. One of the stabs had sliced open his heart, his throat had been cut…there was nothing you could have done…"

Sam lowered his head, keeping eye-contact as she dropped her chin, tears welling up in her eyes but she kept looking at him, nodding, wanting to believe him, _choosing _to believe him.

Dean felt a little out of place, like an intruder almost and he looked away, watching a young couple strolling along the gravelled path towards the statue of some old man sitting on a throne or something until he heard her speak again.

"They said that she stabbed him…about two dozen times or more. I told them I'd seen her running away and they tried to find her, but it was only until the next morning that one of my colleagues found her at the bottom of the stairs to her dorm…she'd thrown herself off the roof, they said, killed herself. Apparently she'd still held on to the knife she'd stabbed Tom with…"

"So, was there anything that would have suggested anything like this…that anything was wrong between them? Since you seem to have known him, did he ever mention having a fight with Suzie, did they maybe plan on breaking up or anything, anything that might suggest why she snapped?"

Amanda shook her had, smiling again albeit a little painfully and Sam removed his hand again, content that he'd given her all the reassurance she'd needed.

"I talked to Tom a lot, as a matter of fact. He reminded me a lot of my little brother…he wasn't a bad kid, you know, just thought that partying was more important than getting a proper education, so I tried to pull him around a bit, give him a little focus or something. I like to think that I might have made a difference, at the end of the day, but I probably don't…anyway…we talked a bit, every now and then, and he'd told me that he thought that Suzie might be pissed at him even though he didn't know why. She seemed to be testy and shirt-fused lately, snapping at him for the tiniest of reasons, all that. I told him that it was probably just a phase…you know girls that age, they tend to be a bit…scatterbrained and moody…probably has to do with the hormones."

"Do you remember when he told you that?"

Amanda though about that some.

"I think it was about a week before…before the murder. Five days at the most. He said that they'd been to a bar a couple of nights before and she'd been felt up by some drunks who wanted to get into her pants. She fought them off, no harm done, nothing but a little scratch, according to Tom, but apparently she took that personally, him not being there protecting her most likely. Anyway, he said that she hadn't been the same since."

Well, the pattern fit. Dean ran a hand unconsciously over his forehead, withdrawing it quickly when he felt Sam's eyes on him, asking him wordlessly if he was alright. Hating the way he felt scrutinized, and that in front of someone else, to top it off. Hating the fact that he hated it…hating the fact that his fuse seemed to get shorter and shorter by the minute.

Hating…

He waved Sam off, readjusted himself on the stairs so he wouldn't face straight into the sun again, further shielding himself from his brother's prying eyes. Turning towards Amy to participate in the _interview_ for the first time, proving that he was feeling fine.

"Do you think it would be possible to take a look at Tom's room, have a quick look around to see if we find anything. You know, fresh sets of eyes and all…"

Amanda shook her head regretfully, expertly crushing the now empty bottle of soda and throwing it into the trashcan at the foot of the stairs.

"Sorry, but that won't be possible. I would let you in, you know, but the room has already been cleared, scrubbed and refurnished about two weeks ago. The university pressing the issue with the police since they wanted to get the room rented out again as quickly as possible. And seeing like it was a pretty clear case, the police didn't seem to mind all that much. Two new students moved in just two days ago…I'm afraid you wouldn't be able to find anything there. Besides…what more is there to investigate really? I mean, I get that the family wants closure, or answers or whatever, but it was Suzie, alright…I saw her, her fingerprints were all over him, bloody and otherwise, on the knife, too and she still held it, being smeared with Tom's blood from head to toe when they found her. I really don't think that there is anything left to find out in this case…"

"Yeah…well, we just want to be thorough, you know, make sure everything has been taken into consideration, that's all. The family is grieving and want to make sure that everything is being done so their son can rest in peace." Sam treaded carefully.

He was good, Dean had to give him that, always the better one with families, no doubt, while Dean had always had the better leverage with kids. It figured, too, since he'd practically raised one himself, right?

"Yeah, Ok…I get that, I guess. Poor people. I don't have any kids…can't imagine what it would feel like to lose a child. Has to be hell."

Both brothers nodded solemnly, not having to pretend much to feel along with her. While losing a child didn't struck as close to home, losing family sure did, the only far too recent loss of their father still fresh in both their minds. Dean still felt the weight of the events bearing down heavily on him, even after all this time, the weight of the deal a constant companion, no matter how many times he tried to assure himself and everybody willing to listen that he'd gotten over it, that he was finally Ok with it. He doubted that he'd ever be.

Dean was more than thankful, when Amy finally stood, wiping her uniform off invisible crumbs and stains, waiting till the brothers had gotten up as well.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be of any more help. I already told you that there was nothing to add to what I already told the police."

"No, please, you've been a great help, really. Thank you so much for your time. And if there's anything else, however small or insignificant that you think of, just give us a call, alright?"

Sam fumbled a piece of paper out of his pocket, a slightly mangled gas-station receipt, inspecting it for any suspicious fake names, finally scribbling both their names and mobile-numbers on it and handing it to her with an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, we ran all out of business cards. Takes forever to have them reprinted."

She might have looked at them a bit funny, but accepted the piece of paper nonetheless, folding it carefully and tucking it away in her breast pocket.

Shaking each of their hands she then turned around and made her way across the big lawn, greeting the odd person here and there as she walked back towards one of the dorm buildings that surrounded the plaza.

Dean finally, relieved that the woman was gone, fumbled his glasses out of his pockets, donning them with as much ease and nonchalance as possible, shooting Sam a ready grin when he felt his worried gaze upon him.

Banning the inevitable question when starting to walk down the few remaining steps, then making his way towards the large gate they'd come in through. Leaving Sam no choice but to follow him so he wouldn't be left behind.

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Dean wasn't feeling well, he didn't need to be a psychic to figure that out, but of course he was too stubborn and proud and most likely still a little embarrassed about what had happened the night before to let on.

Not that Sam had expected it, but still.

It peeved him a little that Dean didn't seem to trust him enough to just simply admit to being hurt or not feeling well for once. How hard could it be? It sure wouldn't break a brick out of his goddamn wall, his freaking _fortress _to just say _I'm hurting_ for once, would it?

They passed by the café again, Sam realizing that this time Dean didn't bother looking anymore, his excitement of this being one of the places Good Will Hunting had been shot in all but gone now as Dean walked steadily on, head down a little, one hand buried in his jacket-pocket, while he held the other slightly clenched at his side.

Sam pushed back the slightly uneasy feeling that had befallen him ever since talking to the security guard, or, rather, even before that. Something still too far of and way at the back of his mind, but he couldn't quite shake the uncomfortable sentiment.

He took two larger steps, catching up with his brother, walking in step besides him.

"Hey Dean…how about lunch? Your stomach up for anything solid yet?" he asked casually, smiling inwardly a little when he heard his brother grumbled reply.

"Nah…think not. Think I'll just stick to coffee for a while."

"Yeah, like coffee is going to be oh so easy on your stomach…"

He thought he saw Dean's jaw harden at the remark, this string of muscle twitching a telltale sign that he was biting back on something before being able to force himself to relax again.

"Gee, thanks Dr. Giant. Glad you studied hard to become a health-expert here. How about you let me worry about myself, alright? I'm pretty sure I'm old enough…"

"Yeah...whatever dude. Just saying."

They walked on in quiet for a while, this uneasy feeling in Sam's gut growing and if he'd learned one thing over the past almost two years in hunting with his brother, he'd learned to trust his feelings. Usually. And this time didn't feel like an exception.

Before turning around the corner that would lead them into the street their car was parked in, Sam suddenly stopped, thwarting Dean who had been walking about half a step behind him in the process.

"Dude…what the hell…" he complained, trying to sidestep his brother to get to the entrance of the parking garage where his baby awaited him. He probably wasn't aware of it, but his hand unconsciously shot up towards his temples for a second before withdrawing it again. Sam frowned, held out a hand, holding him back.

"Wait…I almost forgot. Remember that bookshop I was telling you about this morning, the one right off campus?"

Dean looked at him incredulously, or did most likely since Sam wasn't able to make out his eyes behind the dark shades.

"Sam, 'fraid to tell you, but I don't remember a whole of a lot about what we just talked about to that Ayleen woman…let alone anything from before that…"

"Amanda, Dean… whatever. Listen, there's this bookshop right around the corner, has a great selection of books dealing with the supernatural. It kind of an insider tip I dug up on the internet. The owner is a bit on the weird side…more the "_The truth is out there"_ kind of guy, but he's supposed to have a couple of real rare and original pieces."

"How the hell do _you _know about this stuff?"

"As I said, I read it on the internet…doing research last night…" _…while waiting for you to get wasted enough to come back home… _

Dean shook his head, looking away before trying to push past his brother again.

"Dude, I'm not in the mood to watch you get all excited over a pile of book right now. Let's just go back to the motel…"

"Come on, it's just around the corner. We might find something on what is causing this…we still need to discuss it, anyways. It won't take long…"

"And since when have you ever made it out of a book store or a library in under an hour, Sam? Honestly now, I don't want to. Let's just head back…we can always do some research online."

Dean was squinting now, his forehead creasing a bit, the bridge of his nose wrinkling with the effort it took to keep his eyes focused on his little brother. Working hard on keeping his voice even, too, Sam realized. But to hell with it. If Dean couldn't admit to hurting out loud, Sam wasn't going to back down now.

"You know what, Dean? I wanna go. It won't kill you do jump over your shadow for once and just go along with me, alright?"

Again that twitching-muscle-thing, only that this time it didn't stop again right away.

"Who the fuck died and made you boss?"

"Well, I don't know, Dean. Who made _you_? We're brothers, we're in this together. I'm no little boy anymore that you can drag around behind you and bribe into doing anything you want with just a piece of chocolate. I do have a word in what we do as well, alright? So why don't you humour me and just follow my lead for once, alright?"

Sam was angry, really so, for whatever stupid and unnecessary reason, but he couldn't stand always being the one to hold back, the one to always being forced to follow someone else around.

When he'd been a teenager it had been either dad or Dean, always, never ever being allowed to do anything by himself, to make any decision by himself. At Stanford, he hadn't been able to make one single, freaking decision by himself during the first couple of weeks there, without discussing it over and over with an imaginary big brother in his head. He'd gotten used to it, of course, had found his own rhythm, his own strengths, had grown fond of it, too. And while at first, after getting back on the road with Dean, he'd fought a little against the for him once again unusual take over of his privacy and free will, he again had adapted to it.

And they had gotten better, both of them, had developed a new rhythm with each other over time, one that Sam hadn't been all that opposed to, initially. Only every once in a while Dean seemed to be falling back into old habits far too easily and after everything that had gone down the past couple of days, the irate behaviour his brother had shown, the worry and doubt edging themselves ever deeper into Sam's mind, Sam thought he had every reason to snap.

If his brother could be unreasonable, why shouldn't he be allowed to as well?

Dean was vibrating beneath his fingers and suddenly Sam realized that he'd gotten a hold on his brother's arm during the slightly heated exchange, both their voices dangerously low so nobody else would witness, Sam apparently attempting to drive his point home in holding Dean back bodily now. Trying to prevent Dean from walking away from him once again, the only way his stubborn ass of a brother ever seemed to deal with any confrontation lately.

"Let go of me…"

A frighteningly good imitation of the same words from last night, containing every last drop of barely suppressed anger and indignation, too.

Sam obeyed as if he'd been burned.

Immediately he felt ashamed for lashing out the way he had, the verbal abuses usually more his brother's way of dealing with something like this. Sam had always prided himself to stand above such lower means of warfare. Well, it seemed like he was learning from Dean more than he thought he did.

Still he was pissed, and it would probably never have come this far if Dean would just fucking admit that he wasn't feeling well, that he wanted to lie down and rest or something. That he was goddamn losing it.

So, poor judgement or not, Sam decided that he wasn't going to back off this time.

"Fine, suit yourself. I'm going. You can wait or go and get drunk again…I don't care. But maybe you'll save me the trouble and find someone else to drive you home this time, alright? Because I don't wanna be the one having to drive all through the night to pick up your sorry ass again."

And with that Sam spun around, his face feeling hot with the heat of indignity and the feeling of _wrong_, but he couldn't help himself. He pushed his fists into his pockets almost violently, hunching his shoulders forward and taking off down the street, rounding the corner without ever looking back.

He knew that Dean wasn't following him. He could imagine him standing there, shaking with anger and humiliation, the need the punch something, to lash out blindly just like he always did radiating off of him in angry waves.

Sam didn't need to see it. He just, for once, wanted to get away from it all.

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

tbc

_AN:_

_So, as always…thanks for sticking with me this far, special thanks to all those who took the time to review and let me know what they think about it!_

_Super special thanks to OcherMe…who helped me dig myself out, so to speak, I'm doing so much better now, honestly. Thanks so much!!!_

_Other than that, I decided that I like this story the way it is, and I'll stop worrying myself sick and just admit to it! …so, yeah, it started off a little slower than usual, but I like the pace, it's the only way it's working for me and I hope it's not too bad for you either. So, hope to keep you interested and coming back for the next chapter!_

_Oh, and about Harvard…has been a while since I've been there, so the description might not be entirely accurate – sorry if that peeves anybody, I didn't mean to (and the damn virtual tour of the campus didn't work on my computer, so this is all I could come up with! My memory apparently not the best as the years wear on… ;-))_

_So, I'm of to support a friend's band that's playing in a big band-contest finale tonight…I don't dare hope they're going to win, but – me, groupie since the first day, has to be there and help make the rest of the audience see how truly fabulous they are!!!_

_Please leave me a review if you find the time, you'd really make my day!_

_Thanks again and take care!_


	6. Chapter 6

_Hey everybody…I'm back with the next chapter!_

_And, some of you might be relieved to learn that finally, I got some poor soul to beta for me…OcherMe…thanks you so much, it's great working with you, honestly (and I hope you won't come to regret offering it… ;-))!_

_Enough said for now…hope you enjoy the next chapter!_

From this dark room

Chapter 6

Sam made it to the bookstore and about halfway through the third overstuffed aisle of crooked and mismatched shelves before he felt the anger that had been boiling inside his belly recede and be replaced by first shame, then worry. He knew that something was wrong, had known it probably since last night already, only he'd been too preoccupied to figure it out then, too immersed in the case that he didn't see what was right before his own eyes.

Ever since talking to Amy, since hearing the story of Tom and Suzie, he'd pretty much known, though, somewhere inside, had his fears confirmed and thrown right back at him. And still he'd tried to push it aside, still hoping beyond hope that he'd been wrong, somehow. Only then, realistically speaking, he'd still _known_. The only thing he wasn't all that sure of was, if Dean knew too…

Almost 45 minutes and six equally crowded aisles later he found a book, old and a bit tattered, marked with a black pen stripe on the bottom and along the back, declaring it to be second-hand and therefore priced down 50%. The reason why nobody else had ever cared to buy it pretty apparent from the desolate state it was in…plus the fact that most of the passages in there were actually handwritten and hard to read, some of them even in Latin.

Sam had picked it up out of pity, mostly, he'd never been one to be able to look past a beaten, desolate being…the reason he'd stuck to his brother so far, most likely, and books made no exception. Leafing through it, he'd been stunned into silence by the content, not being able to believe his luck, or whatever else one would like to call it.

The book started off as a book of lore, mostly, reciting a couple of stories of the supernatural…cute little bedtime stories about ghosts and ghouls, a banshee, and one lady in white haunting an old bed & breakfast on Cape Cod. Sam skimmed them loosely, his attention captured for whatever reason, an invisible pull, his mind probably just looking for something, anything to ease the tension, to occupy himself beyond the fear eating away at his guts.

Reaching about the middle of the book there was another story, about a demon and Sam settled himself in one of the low, slightly stale smelling lounge chairs that flanked each aisle to read through this more carefully, finding his eyes growing wider and wider as he went on. Unconsciously he leaned forward, body tensing, eyes scanning the pages with fiery intent, his own heartbeat reverberating intently in his own ears.

A short little tale, originating somewhere in the middle east…some place like Pakistan or Iran from the names of the people involved, about a demon that was born out of anger and destruction, thriving and growing while eating away peoples sanity until one day it was able to rise above the need of human fear and flesh to unleash hell on all living things to turn the world into hell.

Sam had to swallow…because while the tale was merely that…a tale, _fiction_…something in there struck a chord, made his stomach clench and flutter involuntarily.

As he turned to the next page he realized that the following pages had been removed from the book, ripped out and replaced with yellowed, lined notepad pages, glued in amateurishly and covered over and over with slightly askew handwriting, the letters tiny and cramped, fighting to fit everything they wanted to say in the limited space available.

Sam immediately was mesmerized, the image of his father's journal springing to mind as he skimmed the rows and rows of small print, a little smeared in places, words blotted out, others inserted later on, notes and comments jotted along the edges whenever some new thought, some new bit of information had occurred to the writer. The words weren't always clear, the meaning sometimes eluding Sam, but what it came down to was a collection of different versions of the lore Sam had just read, about the anger-demon, stories collected over a long period of time, apparently, from all over the world.

The thing was given many different names, the story many different twists and outcomes. The most common name being _Ragazara_, the name emanating from the Hebrew word for wrath or fury. Basically, from what Sam could decipher after just the first reading was that the original ending, the one he'd just read, was nonsense, according to the writer. From all the different endings from all the stories the man had read and collected over time he'd come to the conclusion that the Ragazara was born out of anger and resentment, a person's own private demon born into his or her own flesh, lashing out and feeding on anger and fury, intensifying the feelings that every person carried within him- or herself to a level that made reigning them in impossible.

The writer further elaborated that the demon, once it had fed on a human to its satisfaction, was able to switch bodies to further strengthen itself, latching onto another host. He called it a leech, a demon without a true form that would go on and on until it was destroyed - or finally destroyed itself in its insatiable craving for more anger, more pain.

Sam felt himself pale at the thoughts and piles of research collected in this little piece of madness in front of him. He felt his fingers first tighten, then starting to shake as he went on, scanning line after line of the small block letters, trying to find what he was looking for, afraid and unwilling to miss anything by not being thorough enough.

The reason behind the demon's urge to grow, to destroy more and more human life still not clear, not even after the hours and weeks and months, probably even years of research the author had put into this, for whatever reason. The only conclusion the writer drew after filling pages and pages with increasingly incoherent thought and scrambled writing was that human madness did not need motivation, did not need _reason._ Once it was born, it was hard - no - impossible to stop.

Which again sent an almost violent shiver down Sam's spine.

The way of _infection_ finally spelled out to him, right how he'd suspected, had feared. Through injury and blood, maybe even saliva, if you wanted to believe some of the stories. Either way, Sam knew that, whatever it was, whatever name he chose to give this thing, it had gotten his brother. He was absolutely, 100% certain of it now.

Which led right to another problem, something he couldn't, try as he might, find anywhere in this damn book that had given him all the godforsaken information he had been looking for, save for the one, the most important one...

How to stop it.

How to save his brother.

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On his way back to the car Sam knew he'd made a vital mistake in letting Dean go off by himself. He had no idea where Dean had gone to, hell, there was no way to keep his brother in check as it was, on the good days, the _regular _ones, but in his current condition Sam had no idea where Dean would go.

Well, theoretically speaking he did know, only, they were in the middle of a foreign city which Sam was sure held it's fair share of bars and drinking holes and he had absolutely no idea which one Dean had chosen to drown himself in.

Hell, he could have taken the damn car and simply abandoned Sam here, could have driven off to let Sam make his own way back home.

_Fuck._

Sam quickened his steps, hand clutching the small paper bag containing the book as tightly as possible, afraid to lose it. There still might be a way out of this, somewhere in there. He hadn't really gotten the chance to read through everything, not word for word, some paragraphs too illegible so he'd skipped those parts and saved them for further examination.

Right now he just needed to make sure that he found his brother.

According to the book, it took about a week for the demon to manifest itself enough to drive the host insane enough to kill, after that only another couple of hours at the most until he found another body to switch to, then make the former host kill himself.

That would still give them…about four to five days, minimum, right? Yet for some reason Sam doubted that Dean would be able to hold on that much longer. He knew his brother. They'd just been through some of the worst months of their lives. His brother had breached the edges of sanity more than once, by a hair's width. And there had been no damn demon, at least not one _inside_ him, to get him there. Sam really didn't think that Dean would need all that much encouragement to get there again.

He took two stairs at a time to get down the two flights into the parking garage, the space where they'd parked the Impala hidden from view behind the wall of the ramp that led to the upper stories, hiding the big car from his eyes until the last moment.

When he finally did make out her back fender, he at first felt an immense sense of relief, then another surge of panic when he realized that it would mean that Dean was somewhere on the loose in this city that Sam didn't really know his way around in.

Fuck again.

He almost jumped out of his skin when he found Dean sitting on the little curb in front of the car, back against the banister behind him. His head leaned back against the iron railing, eyes still hidden by his sunglasses despite the relative gloominess of the underground garage.

"Damn it…Dean…almost gave me a freaking heart-attack…"

Sam automatically took a step backwards, bracing himself before relaxing again, stepping closer.

This was still his brother…still him. They would figure this out. Still time.

Dean didn't respond.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well…what does it look like? You left…_and_ took the keys with you. What was I supposed to do?"

His voice low and too composed, which was always a bad sign, Sam knew that much. Dean raging and screaming and lashing out in the open was the preferred option, any day. That Sam could deal with. This _lethal quiet, ready to explode_ act was nothing Sam had ever done well with.

It made Sam pause, this still apparent aggressiveness. Somehow he'd expected Dean to be withdrawn and ashamed, had expected the anger to have dissipated by now to be replaced with the unavoidable guilt. So this was definitely a step forward, but it was going in a direction that didn't exactly boost Sam confidence about the outcome.

He was unsure how to tackle this, should he jump right in, confront Dean about what he'd just found out, voice his fears? It could be the right way, could make his brother try harder to fight this. Dean would do anything, _anything _to protect his brother, Sam knew that. But on the other hand it could only serve to piss Dean off more, could make the…demon inside him latch onto him even harder, causing Dean to tumble over the edge faster.

He needed to think this through some more, figure this out by himself before making a decision. Get them to safer ground first, back to the motel, where Dean couldn't just disappear to a place Sam could not find him at.

Still a couple of days left.

He wasn't looking forward to those, not at the rate this was going, but he thought he'd be able to pull it off. He had to.

Dean hadn't given up on him back when he'd been…_indisposed_ with Meg…right? He was simply going to return the favour now, however hard it was, still would be.

"Alright…uhm…why don't we get back on the road? Rush hour is going to set in soon, we probably wanna be off the turnpike by then." Sam mumbled, opening the driver's side door, slipping the book in the pocket of his jacket before depositing both on the backseat.

When he turned forward again Dean was still sitting there, no doubt staring at him from behind his glasses and it didn't take much of Sam's imagination to picture the slightly red-eyed stare his brother would be directing towards him right now, lids lowered despite the shades, ever hiding himself away, always making sure that nothing could slip beyond his façade that he didn't want to be seen. It sent a shiver down Sam's spine, knowing that this glare would usually be reserved for the bad guys, the fuglies that managed to piss off his brother real good. Knowing this glare to be directed at him right now hurt more than he'd ever thought possible.

There had to be a way…

Sam started the car, leaning over so he could open the passenger side door for Dean, waiting with forced patience as his brother finally dragged himself off the floor, unsuccessfully hiding the wince that crossed his features at the change in altitude before making his way around the front fender and dropping himself into the passenger seat. Immediately he turned away from Sam, shutting himself off and Sam out.

Well, alright…no verbal sparring then, gave him some more time to think about this. Even though discussing this with his brother was something that he cared about more than anything else right now.

Sighing Sam drew the big car out of the spot and made his was back up towards the street.

Maybe he'd come up with something by the time they made it back to the motel. Maybe they even would manage not to get into each other's faces till then.

For some reason though Sam highly doubted that.

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Dean wasn't stupid.

No matter what people might think about him he wasn't the brainless idiot that some took him to be. He might not have been as smart and educated as his little brother, but he wasn't dumb. He was able to figure some things out by himself, like, for example, right now.

He knew that something was wrong with him. Seriously so. Beyond the usual, that was. He'd always been a freak, there was no use denying it, he'd never tried, either.

But this right now was a whole new level of weird. And he hated it.

He knew what was wrong with him…had figured it out by himself, too, pretty much the moment he'd heard abut that Suzie chick getting all weird right after being jostled at that bar, the same like Mark getting jumped for no apparent reason and then "turning" psycho after.

It really didn't take a genius to figure this out, but still he'd hoped that he was wrong, that there was something else, that maybe he was just…plain old unreasonable. _That_ at least he could deal with. _That_ he knew how to handle. Sam too. At least it wouldn't endanger his brother, because there was no doubt in his mind as to who was the one to suffer from this now the most.

He couldn't let this happen. He couldn't, wouldn't, ever hurt his brother. There was just no way. He'd sworn to protect him, to look out for him. He'd promised his mum, the day she'd brought the squeaky little bundle home from the hospital. Had promised dad, too, on numerous occasions, like the night of the fire and so many countless times after. Had again promised him the night he had died…to save him. Had promised him something else, too, only that was something he wasn't too sure he'd come to hold up to. There was just no way…

How could he ever turn against is brother?

He hadn't even managed to turn on him when Sam had been possessed, had tried to kill him, had shot him, beat him up, dug a freaking thumb into the bullet hole, for crying out loud. And then he hadn't even known, not for sure, not right from the beginning, that Sam had been possessed…because somewhere deep down he had feared that Sam had indeed turned dark side, that Dean had lost him. Only he'd been too weak, too goddamn selfish to admit to it…admit that his dad may have been right.

And god had it turned out to be the right decision then…

But this now…this was one scary piece of shit.

He could feel it, feel it eating away inside himself, nibbling at his humanity, at his reason. He _knew_ it was wrong, terribly so, he knew he was being unreasonable and totally out of line, and he fought it with all his might. But already he could feel his resolve weaken, could feel his mind shutting off, this white hot anger blazing through him, taking away what little was left of his sanity.

When Sam had left him there in that parking garage, Dean had felt himself close to boiling over and he'd actually been thankful that Sam had left when he had, because he wasn't all too sure that he'd been able to reign himself in anymore. He'd had plenty of time to come back down since then, Sam being gone for more than 2 hours, for crying out loud, leaving him there, unable to get in the car and drive away, unable to do anything but freaking _wait_ like a damn schoolboy waiting for his dad to pick him up after school.

God had he hated it.

The whole drive back to their motel he didn't say one word, and it tore him up inside to know that his brother would not understand this…he couldn't understand. There was no way Sam would know that he only kept silent so he wouldn't even get the opportunity to snap at Sam again. Because he couldn't be sure that he would be able to control himself anymore.

He was afraid of what he might say, what he wanted to do…somewhere inside. Was afraid of not being able to control it anymore.

Sam couldn't find out, period. He had to find a way to beat this…by himself. He couldn't burden his little brother yet again. The past months Sam had looked out for him, had had to hold him, Dean Winchester, older brother and protector of little Sammy, in check and tied to life.

Sammy couldn't find out about this.

No way.

This was happening way too fast…his head hurting and throbbing increasingly as time wore on and it seemed as if the longer he kept himself in check, the more it hurt…spreading throughout his whole body, making him nauseous. Just the thought of food made him wanna puke already, and he hadn't even had anything since…well…last night, he thought. He didn't really remember.

Just too damn fast.

Wasn't he supposed to have more time? Well, he had no idea how much time the others had had. About a week for Mark…Suzie too, right? The ones before that he didn't know. They hadn't had time yet to interview any of the relatives and friends that would maybe know. That would still leave him with another couple of days at the least, right?

Only he really didn't feel he had much more time left.

Still there were so many open questions and he was afraid that he wouldn't be able to figure them out by himself. Sam was usually the one thriving on research, the one doing most of the head-work. While Dean enjoyed putting puzzles together, figuring things out, discussing them, tossing and turning them until they fit, the dry and somewhat tedious art of getting all the puzzle pieces out in the open, laying them out on the table so they could start reassembling them, was something he wasn't too good with.

Not patient enough, that's what his dad had told him over and over again.

Because it wasn't as if he couldn't do it…he just didn't like it any. Why bother, when there was someone there that enjoyed doing it so much that he practically volunteered, under the cover of forced patience that was, but still. Sammy loved this kind of thing…him being the brain and Dean the muscle and force behind it. That had been their dynamics all along. And it had worked out well enough all their lives.

When Dean had been hunting alone, the brain part had not really been missing, but it had been sorely missed. He'd proven himself worthy, or so he thought, had shown that he was able to do this, was more than capable. He just hated to think that now, especially in his not-so-reliable state of mind, he was going to have to reach back to those resources again.

Sam was driving in silence, not even the music turned on, for Dean's benefit, no doubt, because Sam of course would notice him hurting…always being the observant, considerate one.

Dean fought the urge to lash out at Sam, verbally, for being so damn _kind _and _altruistic_, which was ridiculous to say the least, but he couldn't help it, he wanted Sam to care…and he wanted him not to. He wanted him to say something and he wanted him to shut the hell up. He wanted him to stay close, to not leave him alone and please, finally, just give him space, go and get himself lost.

He cringed when the car hit a pothole, bit back the piercing remark about watching his car, goddamn it, wanting to yell at Sam for treating her the way he did.

Dean turned away then, turned his back on Sam, hoping that in not looking at him he wouldn't feel this deep, unabashed anger at him anymore. Willing himself to be stronger so he could get over this. If he could manage to just hold himself back…then the _thing_ or whatever it was that had taken him over would disappear eventually. He just had to be stronger then _it_.

He could feel Sam tensing as he turned his back, knowing that his brother was wrecking his brain, worrying himself sick. He'd most likely chew on his bottom lip, chin thrust forward, taking about ten years off his already boyish face, that deep crease in between his eyebrows pretty much gouged in there by now, thinking of something to say, starting to say something, then biting back at the last second.

Sammy wouldn't understand.

He'd have to keep him away, keep him at a distance until he'd figured this out.

_He could do this._

When they finally reached the motel Dean all but sprinted from the car, making his way to the bathroom, locking the door behind him and turning on the water full blast before he dry heaved into he stained porcelain of the toilet, the rush and rumble of the water drowning out the sounds of his sickness, he hoped.

There wasn't much to bring up, the heaves bringing nothing but tears to his eyes, making his ribs ache from constricting over and over again.

When he was done he just sank back against the dirty brown tiles surrounding the base of the bathtub, his knees pretty much pressed against the toilet bowl, the space was so small, breathing, waiting. He let his head sink back against the rim and waited until the cool air of the room dried the sweat that had broken out all over his skin.

He was feeling slightly better, he thought, the urge to _kickscreampunch_ slightly abating as soon as he was not in direct contact with Sam anymore. At the same time he felt like his heart was breaking, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces, thinking that, in order to spare Sam he had to stay away from him.

The one thing he'd never thought possible. The one thing he'd fought for all his life – staying close to his baby brother, keeping him close to keep him save and now all he could do, all he knew what to do in order to keep him from harm was doing just the opposite.

The knock on the door almost made him crack his knees on the toilet bowl and he felt the headache coming back with a snap so strong it made him dizzy.

For a few seconds he said nothing, just stayed there and willed the world to stop spinning, his heart to stop beating so wildly, it made him all the more dizzy it seemed.

Then there it was again, a tentative yet insistent knock and then Sam's voice, grating like nails over a blackboard, yet soothing and reassuring at the same time.

How in heaven and hell could this be so fucked up?

"Dean…man, is everything alright? Can I…is there anything I can do to help?"

He wanted to yell at him to shut up and go away, run as fast as he could, save himself. But of course he couldn't, because that would mean condemning himself to sure doom.

Alone, he was nothing.

Sam always the one giving him reason, purpose.

With Sam gone, he wasn't sure he'd still be able to fight this.

And fight he had to, for the both of them.

"Dean…can I come in? Please…just let me in…"

"I'm good, Sam. Please, just…just leave me be for a minute, alright?"

His voice so thin, it made Dean cringe, he was chastising himself for not being able to sound _stronger_. He could just imagine what it would sound like to his brother.

"Dude…come on… Just let me help."

Dean thought he'd break then. Because in all honesty, he wanted nothing more than to let Sam in, right now, let him help. Let him help by just being there, by his side. It used to be enough in the past. Only he knew that right now Sam would not be able to help. He would only make things worse. He wasn't able to face him yet, he wasn't strong enough yet…he still had some goddamn walls to built back up. Why the hell was this so hard all of a sudden? He used to be the master at being _bob-the-freaking-builder _of emotional walls. This couldn't be this hard…right?

"Dean…"

A little more desperate now and Dean could practically _see_ Sam take a step back, preparing himself to kick in that door. Usually his little brother would be the one to pick the lock, but somehow right now he didn't seem to hold the patience.

He had to say something, anything to make Sam go away just for a little while, to give him more time. Just a little longer and he'd be able to face this…

"Sammy…please, just…just go away. Go get dinner or something…just please…leave me be, just for a while…"

No anger anymore, not right now. Just plain _need_ to get some time on his own for a while. Willing Sam to _please_ understand.

The short pause on the other side of the door made Dean fear the worst. He almost feared for the door to come crashing in any moment now, hoping he'd be able to react fast enough to get out of the shooting range. But then he heard shuffling, a heartbreaking sigh and he knew he had won, however doubtful the success was. For now he'd gotten his way.

"Alright…I'll get us something to eat then. What do you want? There were a couple of fast-food joints at that mall down the road…"

The resignation in his voice again making Dean cringe. But there was no other way.

"Not hungry, Sam. Just go and eat out, give me a couple of hours, alright? Just...find yourself a girl or something…stay away for a while…gimme some space…"

It was meant to sound teasing, their usual banter supposed to bring some kind of relief to the tension practically prickling between them like electrical overload.

Somehow it didn't work.

Another couple of seconds of silence, then he heard Sam draw away, heard his heavy footsteps cross the room, heard the car-keys jingling as Sam picked them up, then the front door easing shut. A couple of seconds later there was the telltale creak of his car's door being wrenched open and shut, then the engine roaring to life.

Any other day the sound of it would have made him tingle all over, a sensory orgasm almost.

Now, as he let his head sink onto his arms, choking back a sob that wanted to break from his lips, it only made him want to hide in this ugly brown bathroom forever.

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tbc

_AN:_

_So, not really a lot left to say, so I'll just cut this short._

_Thanks to everyone who took the time to drop me a review…you guys rock, honestly. Thanks for sticking with me so far…and as always I hope to keep you with me for the ride a little longer!_

_If you find the time, I'd love to hear what you think about this chapter…so drop me a review or something!_

_Thanks again and take care!!_


	7. Chapter 7

_To all those wonderful people still reading this – here comes the next chapter. I hope you enjoy!_

From this dark room

Chapter 7

For the first couple miles Sam just drove. Past the mall and the fast-food places and bars to simply get away from it all for a little while.

This way of dealing, the cruising around aimlessly was usually a means of coping for Dean, but him…not so much. He usually just holed up somewhere, brooding, burying himself in research or something. But he had to admit that this right here had something to it. Kind of. If nothing else it at least gave him the feeling that he was still somehow close to his brother, still with him.

The Impala was almost as much _Dean_ as his brother himself.

It was hard to imagine one without the other.

Maybe Dean was right though and he just needed a little time by himself to come down from this. Sam thought he could deal with that. Plus, he highly doubted that Dean would go anywhere without the means of his car. Even though it probably was only a 30 minute walk to that bar, the _Vamp's Nest,_ Dean would most likely not attempt to _walk_ there and that was just as well.

He caught himself chewing on his thumbnail, rolling his eyes at what Dean would have to say about that, almost hearing the smart remark about getting one of those _no-bite nail polishes_ for him. For some reason that made him feel better and worse at the same time.

After almost making it back into the city, he finally turned around, noticing the fuel gauge showing almost empty, so he pulled into the next gas station, filling her up, using one of his credit cards to pay for it. That at least would find his brother's approval, he hoped. As an afterthought, he washed her windows and hubcaps, feeling slightly foolish doing it since there was nothing he needed to feel sorry for, nothing to make up for, right?

But Dean would like that, so what the hell.

He'd only been gone for roughly an hour, and while he wanted nothing more than to get back to the motel, get back to his brother, he knew that it was still too early. Besides, he was kind of hungry; he hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast and it was getting late already so he pulled the Impala into the parking lot of the big mall, intent on finding something to eat.

He found a place that looked alright, ordering a large serving of roast chicken and potatoes, deciding to eat in. He'd get some take out when he was done, bring something for Dean despite his statement of not being hungry.

He'd have to eat eventually, would need his strength still, especially now...

Besides, knowing Dean, he wouldn't stay abstinent for long. He never had so far.

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Once Sam was gone, Dean forced himself to get up and move. Even though his body felt like not playing along with the plan he knew that he couldn't afford to lose any time on this. He dragged himself up, rinsed his mouth and almost threw up once more when the change in altitude made his head spin again, but after holding on to the rim of the sink he realized that he was indeed feeling a little better, a little clearer.

He didn't dare to look at his image in the mirror though, knowing he wouldn't like what he would see.

Once he was sure he was remotely steady on his feet, he made his way back into the room. Turning off the light Sam had left on for him, he deposited his tired body in one of the ugly plastic chairs by the table, sliding the laptop over and switching it on.

He wanted nothing more than go over to the bed, do his research there, on the soft yet slightly lumpy surface of the mattress, but knew that the minute he'd sit, or let alone lie down there he'd be out for the count. So, not an option.

He opened up about a dozen different search engines, typing him a variation of keywords and prompts, resting his forehead on his arms for a second while waiting for the results to load.

So, while research was not his favourite past time when feeling well, this right now certainly sucked even more. Out loud. He wished that Sam was here, helping him, doing this for him. Then maybe he could lie down and get some rest…

His stomach was rumbling uncomfortably yet the mere thought of food made him want to puke all over again. Maybe Sam would bring him something…something _healthy _and_ easy on his stomach_. Sam would know what to bring. He was always giving Dean hell about his eating habits as it was.

He briefly considered calling Sam, then rejecting the thought as soon as it had entered his mind. First, he had to figure this out. He could worry about nutrition later. Should push come to shove he was pretty sure that Sam would go out and get him something again no matter the time of day or night. Dean always had known how to manipulate his little brother into doing what he wanted. Years and years of training, of learning how to get Sammy to go to bed, to finish his vegetables (whenever they'd had any) and do his chores had given him fairly good experience in that area.

He surfed his way through a couple of different websites, trying his best to concentrate on the words and letters and pictures assaulting his tired brain. His mouth felt kind of dry, the slightly sour taste of vomit still lingering on his tongue.

A half-empty bottle of water stood on the other end of the table and Dean reached over to get it, brushing Sam's jacket off the table in the process.

Damn kid had gone out without his jacket on…normally Dean would have something to say about that. Right now he couldn't have cared less.

He bent down, retrieved the garment to throw it carelessly over the back of the chair next to him, starting at the thump of something falling out of one of the pockets and hitting the floor.

He frowned, picked up the bag he didn't recognize but immediately realized must come from that bookshop Sam had been going to. Curious, he fumbled out the book Sam had bought, raising his eyebrows in mock exasperation as he realized that it was just so typical Sam, spending perfectly good money on a book that looked more dead than alive. In the end his curiosity won out and he thumbed through it, reading the odd word here and there until he reached a section that seemed to have been added later, some handwritten pages, looking almost like his dad's journal, only more meticulous, without the odd, ungifted drawings John had added to his.

That gave him pause and he started reading in earnest now, the pain behind his eyeballs not necessarily decreasing with the effort of deciphering the slightly unsteady handwriting, but what he could make out wouldn't let him go again.

Fuck.

Now he felt real stupid.

Stupid for trying to hide this from Sam because he should have known that the little genius would figure this out somehow.

He read it once, then again, the laptop forgotten as he clung to the tattered collection of months and years of research, the obsession of one single man screaming out at him, mocking him. Making him lose hope and clinging to the same just as bad.

The guy had never found out how to beat this.

The entries to the odd little journal stopped very abruptly, never quite completed it seemed, no conclusion, no way out written down for easy use.

By the time he'd gone through it the second time his hands were shaking and the drumming in his head had picked back up to full force disco beat again.

This was not good.

And then he got angry again. Not the full fledged unabashed anger that he'd felt before, but he was getting there. How did Sam dare keep this from him? How did he dare to keep something that affected him, Dean, to himself?

_How the fuck did he dare?_

The little, self-righteous bastard.

He had to drop the book then, his head sinking into his hands as he fought off the urge to hit _something, someone. _This just couldn't be happening. After all he'd done for the little shit, after all he'd sacrificed and now he just stabbed him right in the back?

A flash of _reason _overwhelmed him and he cringed at his own thoughts, knowing where they were coming from immediately, kicking himself in the butt for not being able to fight them, then the anger was back and he wanted to freaking punch someone. Real hard. Until his knuckles bled. Preferably Sam's face. That sounded like a good enough option.

When the flash of insanity once again abated he found himself on the floor, hands clenched into fists so tight the nails of his fingers dug painfully into the palms of his hands, the bandaged one throbbing fiercely in time with his head. All his thoughts zeroing in on getting up, getting his gun, his knife, waiting for Sam to come back…

He forced himself to ease up, to calm back down. It was so goddamn hard already to keep himself in check, he feared that he wouldn't be able to see clearly at all anymore in no time. And he couldn't hurt his brother…

So, what to do?

Getting drunk hadn't really done the trick, to be honest, even though it had felt like a pretty good option at the moment. But he needed to do something, something to slow this down. Alcohol probably just aggravating him even more…he usually wasn't the aggressive type when drunk, but he couldn't be sure how it would affect him right now.

Something else, then…something to zone him out a bit. A pain pill, maybe, something to take the goddamn headache away and let him wind down just a bit. It had worked pretty well this morning, after waking up when he had taken something to make it possible to just get out of bed, he had been so hung-over. He had felt himself relax then, had felt the anger abate for a while.

Tylenol probably not strong enough anymore, but he was pretty sure there were still some of those stronger painkillers somewhere in his bag, from back when that stuff with his shoulder had happened… Those should at least serve to slow him down for a bit…make it easier to relax.

He'd never been a friend of pain killers…usually they only served to slow him down. But now that was exactly what he wanted…so he was willing to take the risk.

He crawled over to his bag, pulling clothes, washed and unwashed, out carelessly, finding his gun and kicking it under Sam's bed, discarding the ammunition underneath his own. Better not get a hold on a loaded weapon right now…

He found the pills on the very bottom of the bag, the bottle almost empty, only two left.

He could take one now, see how it worked, take the other one if necessary or just keep it for later.

Sounded like a plan.

Already he could feel the anger bubbling again, like a blanket drawing over his mind, blacking out all reasonable thought, smothering him in madness.

He had to act fast.

Dean dry-swallowed the pill, gagging at the bitter powdery taste clinging to his palate, succeeded in keeping it down though.

He couldn't hurt Sam…

He felt the pill taking him over far too quickly, his empty stomach and muddled brain probably serving to enhance the effect. He'd planned on making his way back to the table, read some more, rev up those search engines, make them work for their money. Only he barely managed to crawl his way into bed rolling up on his side as his stomach protested the addition of the painkiller on nothing but air.

He couldn't be angry at Sam when he was out of it. So, as much as he hated this, he was going to suck it up.

There was no way he was going to hurt his little brother. Not while he had at least one word to say about the matter.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

When he woke, he felt better.

Well, despite that cotton-like taste in his mouth that felt as if something had lain down and died in there, only to draw the attention of more things that had been looking for a place to rest their weary heads in as well… But other than that, he felt better than he thought he would just a few hours ago.

Dean pried heavy eyes open, blinking them rapidly a couple of times before being able to focus, finding himself staring at the brown, splotchy wall, the sight somewhat unsettling. Some of those stains looked real…disturbing. At that instant he opted to never touch the wall in this cheap dump. Probably better to not walk on the carpet without socks or shoes on, either. There might be a couple of things living down there that he didn't care to make an acquaintance with…

He barely remembered what had gone down last night, or at least he assumed it had been last night for the room was not as dark anymore, some real light seeping into the room through the unwashed window next to the door, still very distinguishable from the even blearier light of the too dim and partially broken artificial lights of the two only lamps in the room.

Well, he thought he remembered the important parts…like driving his brother away, finding the book, taking that pill… after that, nothing. There probably hadn't been much to remember after that.

Then, suddenly he perked up. The room was far too quiet. Not a sound to be heard, not the usual sounds that was, that accompanied almost each and every night since Dean could remember. Besides those fretful four years where Sam had been gone. Then, he'd missed the sounds too, painfully so, and dad, on the few occasions that he'd been there and stayed with Dean for more than a couple of hours before taking off again, had been a piss-poor substitute.

Sure, he'd snored with the best of them, had even mumbled in his sleep a little, had farted once, when drunk, but it hadn't been the same. The sounds Sam made, when sleeping or awake, distinctively unique, branded into Dean's memory, giving him the comfort and security he needed to get a good nights sleep himself. Sam had no idea, but Dean hadn't ever slept well when Sam hadn't been there, in the bed next to his'. Not that he'd ever find out…that was definitely not something that anybody needed to know about him, it would only serve to blur the picture of the awesome, unbreakable brother that he wanted Sam to believe he was.

Sam, where the hell was Sam?

He'd left, sure, Dean had asked him to, but sure he'd come back, right? There was no way Sam would leave him, not like this. Not when he knew what was going on…right?

Only, maybe that was exactly what he should do…maybe he should leave and not come back until Dean had found a way to fix this. Stay gone and safe so Dean would not get the chance to hurt his little brother.

He knew it probably would have been the best option, the safest one, but he couldn't get himself to accept this. He just couldn't. Because he needed Sam, here by his side, so he could get through this. He couldn't do this alone. And this had nothing to do with _not wanting _to, anymore. This was pure, unabashed need. Without Sam, he didn't stand a chance and he knew it.

"Sam…"

He rolled himself onto his back, immediately realizing that he had been covered with a blanket, tucked in good, his shoes and over shirt taken off, leaving him in jeans and t-shirt, and he then knew that Sam must at least have been here at some point during the night because he could remember clearly falling asleep on top of the covers just as he'd been.

So he'd been here. And then he'd left again?

"Sam…?"

With effort, he disentangled himself from the blankets, pushing himself up, bleary eyes searching the room.

Finding Sam right there, just a few feet in front of him, which made him jump back with a humiliating little yelp.

"Hey there…sleep well?" Sam said, his eyes never wavering, lips tugged into an emotionless smile.

His voice held nothing of the usual gentle tone, he seemed to be putting far too much effort into sounding casual. Even though he did smirk a bit at the girly noise Dean had just made, but he refrained from commenting on it.

"Uhm…yeah, I guess… When did you…where…how long…?"

Great, now he'd not only lost his ability to think straight, but talking became an effort, too? He could barely look Sam in the eye, running his bandaged hand through his hair, realizing that the spikes were gone and he most likely looked like he'd just been running twenty miles through the rain. Then he realized that the gauze on his hand had been replaced and he'd be damned if he remembered when that had happened.

His head still felt like it was packed in layers of cotton, but at least the headache held itself back a little now. Good…at least _something _was going according to plan.

"Did you…?" he waved the hand towards his brother, forced himself to relax while keeping as much distance between them as possible while they are both sitting right across from each other on their respective beds.

Sam nodded, still this look in his eyes, a mixture of worry and sadness and anger that was hard to interpret. But knowing his brother, he'd probably spill his guts in no time, whether Dean wanted to hear about it or not. Right now he wasn't too sure, he just wanted this to last a little longer…the _not being angry_ part such a relief, he felt like hugging Sam just for the sake of it. As long as he still could. But that would probably just make Sam suspect something even worse was wrong with his older brother, so Dean held back on the feelings a bit. Had to be the drugs making him all emo and soft there.

"You pulled a stitch."

Short and right to the point. Fuck. That was usually not the way Sam talked. He talked things to death. And back. And while Dean didn't necessarily liked that particular trade of his brother, he yearned for it now, for whatever reason.

Dean didn't remember hurting himself again…it must have happened on his search for the pills, then, or earlier, in the bathroom. Damned if he remembered.

"Oh…alright. Didn't even feel anything."

"Yeah, you were pretty out of it." A little more reproach in his voice and his eyes flickered over to the nightstand for a second and Dean followed his brother's gaze to find what he had been looking at. The almost empty bottle of pills.

Alright, that might explain some of that admonishing attitude.

"Listen Sam…"

"No, Dean…please. Save the explanations. This is…I mean, did you even think before you did this? What did you freaking _think_? I come back to find you, zonked out on the bed next to an almost empty bottle of pills I didn't even know we had and I couldn't get you to wake up. I almost freaked out, Dean…I was gone for less than three hours and then I come back to this…"

He broke off then, voice cracking suspiciously, turning his head away and still Dean could see the telltale twinkle of wetness in the corner of Sam's eyes, his fingers knotted together, muscles in his forearms twisting and turning with the strength with which he almost cracked his fingers.

"Sam…"

"I thought you…I saw the book and the research and I thought you…"

"You know I would never do that, Sam. _Never_. I just…I just wanted…"

"You wanted what, Dean?" Sam suddenly leaned forward, face only inches from Dean's and he flinched and leaned back a bit, keeping some of that personal space personal still, not really succeeding though.

"I just…I wanted to not…be angry at you anymore. I didn't want to hurt you…"

Dean hated how his voice sounded thin and hollow, as if that confession took everything out of him. As if he'd really needed to say it. Sam should know that he'd do this in order to spare Sam any pain. Only that he only ever seemed to achieve just the opposite, in the end.

Such a screw-up.

"I'm sorry Sam…"

"Shut up, Dean…please…" But the anger was gone from Sam, evaporated at his brother's confession and he seemed almost deflated.

"You scared the shit outta me…I thought I'd lost you…"

"Yeah, but, you know, I would have skipped some vital parts then, right? I'm supposed to kill someone first, then infect someone else, then off myself… Now I know that I'm not often sticking to the plan and all, but I never to anything half-assed, right?"

Sam shot him a venomous look and Dean had to admit that his attempt at humour had been as far off as anything he'd ever said or done. This was nothing to take lightly, he knew, but to hell with it. It was his way of dealing, had been so all his life. Sam of all people should know that he didn't mean it…

"Stop making fun of this…just this once, can you please be serious?"

Dean shrugged, holding his mouth though.

Sam looked as if he hadn't been sleeping all night, as if he'd stayed up and watched him to make sure he didn't just stop breathing all of a sudden. Either that, or jump his brother in his sleep…

"I just took one pill, Sam. Just to stop that headache and be able to think clearly again. The bottle was almost empty already…"

"So, how are you feeling now?" Sam asked, almost hesitantly, as if fearing the answer.

Dean again shrugged, straightening himself to make his words sound more true than he feared they would, even though they weren't a lie, not really.

"I'm better now, Sammy. Maybe not great, but, you know, fine. I don't feel…I'm not that… It's worse at night…the headache gets worse then, makes it hard to think clearly. I can't really control it."

Sam nodded, straightening too, mimicking his brother's posture.

"You read the book?"

"Yeah…it kinda fell out of your pocket. That guy's an almost greater freak than us, man."

"How so, Dean? I mean, did you take a good look at dad's journal? That seems pretty freaky to me, too."

"True, but…we kinda don't get all obsessed on just one thing, you know? We are looking at the greater picture…"

Sam cocked an eyebrow at that, his expression doubtful.

"I don't know if that doesn't make us the even bigger freaks at the end of the day, Dean. Besides…we do kind of focus on just one big baddie…we only got sidetracked somewhere along the way."

"Yeah, whatever. Let's agree on all of us being a little on the weird side, shall we? Now, the question is, how do we figure out this guy's _nemesis_ so we can file that away as something we've conquered along the way to achieving our own goal?"

Sam smiled, a little weakly maybe, but it was true and honest at least and he got up from the bed, made his way over to the table, the book and laptop still open and somehow Dean doubted that Sam had been asleep at all that night. He looked like he'd worked on this without taking a break.

Dean trudged along, feeling a little dizzy but alright otherwise, cherishing the feeling after that horrible night he'd had and slumped down on the chair next to his brother.

"How about breakfast?" he asked casually, grinning when Sam shoved a brown paper bag across the table without looking at him.

"When did you get that?"

"Guy at the office had some stuff. Tastes terrible, the coffee, too, but I didn't want to drive off to get something else, so it will have to make do."

Ok, that sounded reasonable.

Dean bit half-heartedly into a bagel that most likely hadn't even been fresh two days ago, keeping the coffee for later since the smell didn't do anything to settle his rumbling stomach at the moment.

It went without saying that now they both knew what they were dealing with, that they both knew that it had gotten Dean and that they didn't have all that much time left. However _normal_ he seemed at the moment, they both knew that it wouldn't stay that way. Not for long.

"So, you got a plan that saves me from going all Michael Douglas on you?"

Recognizing Sam's incredulous look Dean added:

"_Falling Down_. Michael running amok…ring any bell?"

Sam just gave him _that look _again and Dean shrugged it off. That kid just had no taste in movies, period.

"Ok, whatever. So, any way out of this? Tell me you found something…"

Trying his hardest to not sound too desperate. But he really felt it.

He couldn't hurt Sam.

"Well…I don't know. I scouted the internet again and again but I really couldn't find anything specific. I mean, this guy, whoever wrote that journal, he seemed to have put a lot of effort into this and still he came up with nothing, no solution that reportedly works."

Well, that didn't sound like something Dean wanted to hear at the moment. He'd kind of hoped that his geeky brother would have come up with a little more info than he himself had been able to score.

He tried not to let his frustration show.

"So, what do we do? We just give up and wait for what happens?"

Dean hadn't meant for his voice to sound that defiant and for a second he was afraid that it was coming back…whatever _it_ was. The way Sam looked at him, slightly cautious, reluctant, watching him without letting on he was doing it, showed Dean that his brother had the same apprehensions.

Dean wondered how Sam could just sit by him like this, knowing, that Dean would most likely be trying to kill him soon…

Which he wouldn't, _he wouldn't_. He'd find a way, whichever that would be, but he would not hurt Sam.

"I never said that." Sam countered, hurt almost.

Like he'd ever give up on his brother…

Dean intervened quickly then, trying to flatten the waves before it got out of control again. He relied on his brother to stay calm as well, knowing that - if Sam snapped, so would Dean - most likely. The more aggravated his brother, the more he'd tag along. So, staying calm and easy was the number one priority at the moment.

"Alright…so, there has to be something. We have to at least try something."

He was acutely aware of Sam keeping an eye on him, of keeping tag of his mood. So he tried to sound calm and confident while he felt anything but.

"Well, there is one thing… I'm not sure if it works at all, but I found one source saying that if you find the original host, the person that brought the demon to manifest and…destroy the body…that it might go away for good."

"Only, that the creator would be dead…because he was the first victim of his own anger, right?"

"Right. So, while it's a bit far fetched and I never really read anything stating that this ever really worked I think it's worth a shot, right? And we actually do know how to get rid of the guy, _especially_ since he's dead."

"So you say that we salt and burn the bones…"

Sam nodded, trying to repress his eagerness and excitement at the find.

"Yep, pretty much."

"Wouldn't it be ironic if it really was that easy?"

Sam shrugged, smiling lightly again.

"Well…those people probably didn't know what we know, right? Besides, for most people salting and burning some _bones_ wouldn't sound all that easy now, would it?"

"You could be right about that. So, I take it that you maybe spent some of that time when I was…indisposed and figured out who that first host was and where he or she is buried?" Dean asked hopefully, flashing a weak smile at Sam who managed to smile back.

"All that trust in my abilities…makes me all warm and fuzzy inside." He mocked back.

Sam trying to use Dean's kind of humour to make him feel better did catch Dean by surprise…positively so. He might be able to get the kid onto his side after all.

"I found the first reported _weird_ death in the area. A little over three months ago, in a little town not far from here. A man killing his mother, of all things, then cutting his own wrists. The community was shocked since the man had taken care of his mum for years since she'd had a stroke and needed 'round the clock assistance. He was supposed to have loved her very much and apparently got real angry at the insurance company for not paying them the insurance claim that he thought they deserved to get. Neighbours said that he probably just snapped from the strain of providing for his mum and earning the money to afford the medical assistance that she needed."

"So, maybe he was _so_ angry, that he actually summoned that thing…or, gave birth to it or whatever you want to call it?"

"Don't know…I've heard about lesser reasons to get mad. He wanted to take care of her as best as he could but he felt betrayed by the insurance…and then he ended up killing the one person that he was actually doing this for, the person he loved the most. It fits the pattern if nothing else." Sam said, reading something on the laptop screen before leaning back, addressing Dean directly again.

"Alright, what are we waiting for then…let's go and burn this sucker…"

"Uhm, Dean, glad to see you up and about again, but I need to remind you that it is not really common practice to exhume graves and set fire to a body in bright daylight. People might find this a bit…inappropriate."

Dean winced at that, realizing again that he had no idea how late or early it actually was.

"You might have a point there… What time is it, anyway?"

"Only about 11.30. AM. So we still have a couple of hours left."

That again made Dean cringe. First off, it was the realization that he'd slept for almost twelve hours straight, and could very well imagine his brother's worry throughout the whole time. Secondly, acknowledging the fact that waiting till tonight most likely meant him losing it again. Losing himself. He had to swallow hard, fidgeting uneasily on the chair, suddenly feeling the hard plastic numbing his butt, feeling jumpy and irritated at the uneasiness he was experiencing. He was used to be in control…of both the situation and himself. Foremost himself. He hated feeling helpless.

And he hated having to rely on Sam to help save him.

Sam seemed to sense his unease, but he seemed to have a hard time figuring out what to do…what to say to make him feel better. But it shouldn't be his place to worry. Dean was the one who held the prerogative on worrying about his brother. He was the older one, the responsible one. It didn't work the other way round. And he would do anything to keep it that way.

"Ok then…what do we do until then?"

Dean felt reluctant to go, but at the same time he didn't want to stay here and simply wait for things to catch up with him. He'd never been one to sit back and wait for things to happen, he'd always been the one to take action and go find trouble before it had a chance of finding him first.

Sam looked at him a bit doubtful, worrying his bottom lip absentmindedly.

"You sure you're up for this? I mean…I could always go and do this by myself…"

"Like hell you are. Sam, this is about me, alright? I'm going to take care of this. With you or without you. But I'm not going to be left behind."

"How are you…what happens if you…"

"If I snap? If I turn on you before we got this done?" Dean hardened his jaw, forcing his breathing to stay low and even.

Sam shrugged, unable to look him in the eye.

"Yep…"

"Well…I won't. I know what's wrong now, I can beat this. I'll just…I can be stronger than this."

"I don't know Dean…I mean, I don't doubt that you are strong, but I don't think that you'll have a lot to say in that matter once it…gets bad again."

Sam was worried…for Dean or himself?

"Well, you better watch me, then. There is no way I'm gonna hurt you, Sammy. You of all people should know…"

He could see Sam punishing himself, willing himself to believe Dean, wanting to believe that his brother could beat this. By himself. Willing himself to give Dean the benefit of a doubt. It didn't seem to work.

Dean felt a slight tinge of irritation at that flood him, but he quenched the sentiment quickly.

"I can do this, Sam. And I still got you to hold me in check, right? You always enjoy reigning me in anyway. Now you got a free ticket to do just that. What do you say?"

Sam forced a smile, got up from the chair.

"Alright then. Why don't we get cleaned up then, get ready so we can head over there, scout out the place, find the right grave so we don't have to waste any time later?"

"Yeah, I'm good with that…you go shower first, I'll finish my coffee."

Sam nodded, keeping his eyes on Dean for a tick too long before finally heading into the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

Once he was gone Dean quickly got up, grabbed the remaining pill off the counter, stuffing it into the back pocket of his only clean pair of jeans that he got out to wear later.

He was dead set on beating this, on staying on to long enough for them to finish this. And if it took drugs to help him with it, he'd break with his principles and do it. It was his brother's safety they were talking about here. For Sam, he was willing to do almost anything.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

_AN_

_Ok, so…please let me know what you think…I could really use some encouragement at this point. _

_I've had a crappy week – a whole series of crappy weeks, to be exact, and right now writing seems to be the only way to vent my anger and frustration and a whole string of other held back emotions that I can't seem to be able to let out anywhere else without being treaded around and treated with f… kid's gloves, knowing full well that people just think of me as completely nuts now. _

_So, this here is__ the only place I get to let go a bit, because, you know…no one knows me and I don't have to look any of you in the eye and just know that you think I'm going completely insane… I know you'll think that anyway, but I don't have to face it, and that's all I'm asking for right know._

_Sorry to unload like that…I know my problems are nothing compared to what some people are dealing with...but you know… Can't afford a therapist, so my ANs will have to suffice…again, sorry for that._

_OK, I go and hope now that nobody reads this…I'll find the darkest possible corner in my apartment and hide…maybe I'll delete this tomorrow, but right now I just needed to get this off my chest._

_As always – thanks so much for your reviews so far, please keep them coming, right now this is sadly enough the only positive thing happening to me._

_OcherMe – my beta – thanks so much, you're wonderful…_

_So, if you want me to go on, let me know…the next chapter is done and just waiting to be let go!_


	8. Chapter 8

_Ok…here goes chapter 8 – please read and hopefully enjoy – everything else later, if you want to read!_

From this dark room

Chapter 8

They made it to Quincy by mid-afternoon, after each taking their shower and getting some real coffee. After locating the cemetery Sam made his way into the little hut at the entrance that listed all the graves and their "inhabitants". This was actually a pretty useful invention…would save them a lot of time checking on every single headstone to find the right one.

Sam memorized the number of both the aisle and lot where Dave Jones' body had been buried, then got back to the car to get back to his brother.

Approaching the sleek, black vehicle he gave his brother a quick once-over, studying Dean's profile in the passenger side window.

Dean had again donned his sunglasses about half an hour ago, his face paling a little, eyes drawing tighter again, making those thin lines around them stand out starker than usual. It was amazing how a person could _shrink _in appearance in just a mere two to three days. It wasn't just the physical strain but the mental burden that weighed heavily on Dean's mind. Like he'd needed any more of that...

Sam quickly strode over to the driver's side, slipping in, not missing the way Dean jumped slightly, scooting away from him almost imperceptibly. God, he didn't want this anymore. He wanted, just for once, to get back to _normal_ again. Their kind of normal. For longer than just a day or two at a time. That wasn't too much to ask for, right?

"You find him?" Dean's question was a tad too fast, too eager…trying too hard to appear nonchalant.

"Yeah…got his number."

Realizing his mistake too late.

"Gee, Sammy…didn't take you for the type. But at least _someone_ finally gave you his number…"

"Oh, very funny, Dean. You're hilarious… His plot number, I got his plot number. "

But he had to smile. Now, that was the _normal_ he'd been talking about. Almost.

"So, what now?"

Dean seemed to be getting a bit sluggish, his body loosing its tension, almost, which was something that Sam hardly ever observed on his brother. Dean usually coiled and ready to strike, even when appearing relaxed and at ease outwardly, even when asleep.

"Don't know…nothing left to do but wait, I guess."

"Great…never felt so good to have nothing to do." Dean's voice dripping with sarcasm as he slumped further into the side door.

"Yeah…I'd say let's go to the library or something, but I don't think this town has anything decent to offer…"

Dean huffed at that, went quiet again.

For a couple of minutes neither man said anything, Sam fumbling the book out of his pocket, opening it again. Reading it one more time sure wouldn't hurt. Maybe he had missed something the first 27 times. Knowing Dean, he'd probably be asleep in no time. Or so Sam hoped.

He caught himself wondering if Dean had brought his knife…

"Sammy…"

Sam almost jumped at Dean's voice. Almost.

"Yeah…"

"Just…if we can't stop this…"

"What…no Dean. Shut up right now. I don't wanna hear this, alright? This is my turn to say _no chick flick moments_. We're going to beat this."

Sam's eyes were blazing and he felt his face heating up. He saw Dean close his eyes behind the shades, the angle of the sun hitting the windshield illuminating the glasses enough to make visible what was supposed to stay hidden. Dean turned his head before opening them again, looking out the window, giving Sam a sideway view of long lashes that hung low over carefully averted eyes.

"Well…this is my turn now, alright? Just this one thing…if this goes bad somehow…I would never, ever hurt you…on purpose…you know that. But if I do…"

"You won't."

"Yeah…but if I do…"

"You can stop right there, Dean. Because I won't do it…whatever it is you want to say. I won't."

Dean's head stayed turned away, but Sam could see the twitch and pull in his jaw, the strain in the taut muscles in his neck.

"Well…that's curious. Because I remember vividly a time not too long ago when you practically begged me to save you…even if it meant killing you. How come you get to ask me that but I don't get the same right in return, Sam?"

Sam was a bit taken aback by that. He didn't really remember all of what he'd said to Dean in his drunken stupor back at that hotel where they'd helped to get rid of the ghost. He remembered little snippets, too brightly colored and fuzzy along the edges to know if they'd been real memories or just imaginations of his tequila-numbed brain.

"I think it's only fair for you to give me the same assurance as I gave you. You don't have to like it, Sam, but I don't wanna…I can't hurt you…or worse and then end up killing myself. You might as well save me the trouble."

All the times that Sam had thought about this, had imagined what it must have felt like for Dean when their dad had asked his oldest to kill his little brother should there be no way out, what it must have felt like for Dean when Sam himself had practically begged him to not let him turn dark side…he'd never been able to truly fathom what Dean must have felt, the utter and complete helplessness, the pain…the anger. Now he understood.

And he thought he'd break right there.

"You know I can't do that, Dean." He whispered, turning away himself. "You can't ask that of me."

"Well, tough, because I am. I'm just evening the score, Sam. You can't let me do this…you can't let me hurt you. I'd never forgive you…ever."

"What would you do, Dean, haunt my ghost if I don't do it?" Sam cracked, wanting so badly to sound strong and witty and nonchalant. Wanting to for his brother's sake, because he knew that Dean would appreciate it more than anything else he could have said at that moment.

Only, it sounded nothing but weak and inappropriate and _desperate_.

Dean huffed without humour, closing his eyes again, lips tugging into a painful smile.

"You know I'd find a way, Sam."

"Yeah…if anyone, you'd be the one."

A couple of seconds of silence followed, and Sam almost believed that this was the end of it, that Dean would let it rest. He really should have known his brother better than that, though.

"Just promise me that you wouldn't do anything stupid, alright? Don't do anything…I wouldn't do…"

It was a small concession Dean was asking for, one that wasn't entirely clear either, but it was the only fair one, Sam knew. But, try as he might, he couldn't get himself to give his brother even this small piece of reassurance.

He said nothing, then, watching Dean out of the corner of his eyes, his reflection in the window as the sun slowly made it's way across the car's windshield, soon casting the car in shadows as it crept to hide behind the high trees surrounding the secluded parking space they'd chosen in order not to raise any suspicions, waiting in front of a cemetery for the place to close down, for darkness to cover their tracks.

And for once, Dean didn't dig deeper.

Only when his breathing finally eased out, the tension leaving his body completely and he dropped into a deep slumber that made Sam suspect some foul play, some help to his sleep that Sam wouldn't have approved of, did Sam finally dare to look at his brother, directly once again. He took in the lines of worry, of years of hunting and a life so much harder than what most people could even begin to imagine crowding the corners of his eyes, even in sleep. His body was devoid of that tension for now, even though Sam doubted that it had also left his mind completely.

Sam sighed, ran a hand over his face, rubbing viciously at his nose until he thought he was going to rub it off if he proceeded doing it, willing his digits to stop the attack on his skin and dropping it into his lap again. It was only with great difficulty that he finally managed to tear his eyes away from his brother's slumped form, willing himself to not try and reach out, to touch, to only make matters worse, most likely.

Forcing himself to focus back on the book, willing this to work so he'd be able to add a final chapter to the story for future generations to find.

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Ok, so there were a couple of holes in their plan, he'd be the first to admit that.

The first one being, that it would be much easier digging up a grave that had only been filled about three months ago. While the earth indeed was still soft and not as packed, the bouquets of flowers, some wilted and dried already, some still fresh and in full bloom - no doubt added within the past couple of days, made getting past the first layer considerably harder. That and the framed picture of the deceased staring down at them from its vantage point on top of the crude, makeshift gravestone that had yet to be replaced by the permanent one.

The second mistake only came to their attention when they'd finally laid free the coffin which was shiny and new and not made out of wood, meaning it couldn't just be broken into with a strong swing of their shovels. They needed to pick the locks. Which certainly wasn't a first, but still…

This led right to the third misunderstanding when tackling this project…which would be the matter of the corpse. Namely…it was still a corpse. Not some pile of bones, not even a whole skeleton with maybe a couple of hairs and dried patches of skin left or anything the like. It was a corpse. As fresh as they came…skin and flesh still covering the bones almost as good as new…almost, but still the features were identifiable enough to make Sam gag at the sight and the smell. Again, not a first, but…

But this, for some reason, they hadn't been prepared for.

Which only served to show how close to home this case had struck that they hadn't thought this through enough to think about these things.

And what might have added a little to the weird awkwardness of the situation was the fact that Dean was still far too…sluggish, subdued, inverted. He'd regained some of his energy while digging, had finally ditched the sun-glasses when it became apparent that he saw close to nothing in the dim light of one of their flashlights, which lay perched on top of the gravestone. Judging from the squint of his eyes, the way he kept his head as level as possible Sam had no problem to figure out to how he was really feeling.

Not that he would let on about it, of course, but Sam had long ago learned to read the signs and react to them accordingly.

They didn't talk much, period while working, saving their breath, Sam liked to think, but there might have been something else to it and he couldn't help but notice how he himself tried not to turn his back on Dean, tried to keep him in his line of vision and that just screamed _wrongwrongwrong _but still he couldn't help it.

He could see the concentration that pinched Dean's features as he no doubt concentrated on keeping himself in check, his emotions down, now that he knew what was causing it. While Sam tried to keep turned towards his brother Dean did just the opposite, trying to stay facing away, to not touch, to not look at him so he wouldn't even get a reason to find anything to fuel that time-bomb that was ticking away inside of his own body.

The awkwardness so palpable, it made Sam want to punch something. Just when he had thought that they had gotten over this.

When they'd laid free the body Sam clambered out of the grave, extending a hand to help Dean up, not failing to notice the way his brother hesitated for a split second, offering his left hand only after Sam refused to take hold of his wounded right with an inquiring eyebrow, not missing the way he let go of his arm far too quickly after being on safe ground again, letting go as if he'd been burned. Sam took it upon himself to douse the body in both salt and gasoline, carefully keeping his eyes angled away so he didn't have to take a real look.

Trying not to think about what he was about to do.

One look at his brother helped strengthen his resolve.

Dean had taken his Zippo out of his pocket, fumbling with the hatch when his fingers shook noticeably and Sam reached over to take the lighter out of his hand. Dean held on to it for maybe a bit too long, but Sam held his place and finally Dean let go. His eyes were cast in shadows again as he took a stiff step backwards, chin jerking towards his chest as if he'd needed to rip himself away from a situation that could have all too easily escalated right then and there.

His lips a tight line that Sam knew how to read.

His brother was fighting.

At least he was still fighting this.

Somehow Sam wasn't too sure how long he'd be able to hold this up, though.

"I'll take care of this, alright?" Sam asked gently, not wanting to aggravate the situation any further and Dean nodded tensely, taking another step back, hiding in the shadows.

OK, so let's get this over with.

Sam didn't hesitate for another second when lighting a piece of paper he'd fumbled out of his pocket, waiting until it had caught the flame, then dropping the smouldering piece into the depth of the grave.

He took a quick step backwards, instinctively shielding his eyes as the flame angrily roared into a full on frenzy when feeding upon the liberally doused body in the hole. Then there was nothing left to do but wait.

A fresh body burned way slower than an already rotted corpse, smelled far worse too.

Sam was afraid that the bonfire they'd unleashed would draw attention, but he didn't want to risk leaving just to then have someone else extinguish the fire before the body was completely burned.

They stood in silence, Dean still a couple of steps behind him, which made Sam uneasy in more ways than one. His brother usually was an ever present source of energy, of life and strength and movement, of superfluous yet amusing trivia, of simply _Dean_. Him standing quietly in the background was something that was new to Sam, unusual, something that made him feel more afraid for his brother than him screaming and hitting and spitting venom.

When finally the flames had died down, smouldering weakly, Sam again stepped forward, pressing the back of his hand to his nose as he peered over the edge, the heat of the newly extinguished flames still making him break out in sweat. The body was…not there anymore, a heap of ash in the blackened carcass of the coffin.

Sam turned around only to find Dean still where he'd come to stand when he'd set the grave on fire, head down, chin almost resting on his chest, eyes closed, or so Sam thought, jaw set. His hands were clamped at his side and yet he looked almost…defeated?

Sam's heart did a somersault in his chest.

"Dean…"

His brother didn't move, just stood there, but his eyes opened, stared at the ground, blinking rapidly for a couple of times. He looked as if he'd just woken from a deep, restful sleep, the innocence emanating from him was something that Sam usually cherished beyond anything, in those rare moments when Dean let him see, usually watching his brother waking up for just this tiny moment of _unguarded_ emotion in his brother's face. Seconds only before he closed himself off again. It was something he didn't get to see too often anymore, hardly ever, come to think of it.

Now he was torn between hope and anguish.

Had it worked?

"Dean."

Sam took a step closer and finally Dean lifted his head. There was something in his eyes that Sam couldn't read and he took another step closer before Dean made a move as if to retreat and he stopped.

"So…do you think it worked?" Sam asked carefully.

Dean shrugged, his head suddenly coming up fully, his eyes guarded again. Which made Sam flinch a little.

"I don't know… How am I supposed to know?" His voice so soft, it was hard to hear.

"Um, no idea…I mean…do you…feel any different?"

Dean looked down on himself, turning his hands up in an almost comical gesture as if he'd be able to see the change right there, written on his palms or something the like. If it hadn't been for the still slightly lost and distraught look on his face Sam might even have laughed. Almost.

"I…don't know. Sam…I don't know."

Now, that was not the way he had thought this would turn out.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, looking around a little uncertainly. He didn't know what he'd expected, if he thought there would be a puff of smoke or a strike of lightening or Dean falling down, grabbing his head, maybe expelling some of that black smoke or something, but he sure had expected _something_. Dean should feel different, right?

He should feel different.

Or maybe not.

Maybe it just took some time for him to realize…maybe he was still too…high on whatever he'd taken to keep himself in check. Sam was almost sure he'd taken something again. The tiredness and lax muscles, the sluggishness of his movements and thoughts and speech always a telltale sign of his brother being high on some kind of pain-killer. He'd never been too good with those. Which was one of the main reasons he hardly ever took them, only as a last resort. Because usually, he couldn't afford to be sluggish, to be lax. Now it seemed to have been the only opportunity to stay composed enough to get through this.

There was no way to know until…well…there'd be some kind of sign or something, some change in his behaviour. To the better or the worse. Until then they had to take care of business, finish what they'd started.

"Ok…we should cover the grave then, cover our tracks and get back to the motel. We'll see how it goes then."

Dean only nodded and Sam picked up his shovel, started filling the grave back in. After a couple of seconds he was aware of his brother next to him, starting to work with him.

When they'd finished Sam was almost positive that he'd gotten his brother back. Their rhythm was almost back to normal, almost in sync again. If he ignored the still stale taste of _wrong_ on his tongue, that was.

And somehow almost just wasn't good enough anymore.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Looking back he'd most likely known that it hadn't worked the minute the body had been burned to ashes.

He hadn't felt any different. Now, of course he didn't know what he was supposed to feel, _how_ he was supposed to feel at all, but he sure had expected something along the lines of relief or alleviation…_something_. Anything at all but instead he'd just felt…the same. Which made it all the worse.

Because, if he was being honest with himself, he had known, had been almost pretty sure when standing at the grave, staring down at the smouldering remains.

If anything, he'd felt despair, complete and utter hopelessness flooding him and then…it had all been blank again. Because he'd known that there was most likely no way out of this. Not this time.

Dean Winchester was never one to give up easily, hell, he was the walking billboard of stubborn and dead set on achieving whatever he'd set his mind on. It might have been the demon, the virus…whatever talking, or acting, but he felt himself simply caving in on himself the second the body had burst up into angry flames, the loud crackle of the fire, the smell of burning skin and flesh and hair singing his nostrils, almost making him gag.

The sight of his brother, back still to him yet the tension screaming from his set shoulders, the strong grip he'd held on his shovel throughout the bonfire. And then, the moment he'd turned around, the hope and sheer _need_ in his eyes he knew that he couldn't just take that tiny possibility that it had indeed worked away from his brother yet.

But he couldn't get himself to just do what he'd been so good at up until now and just simply tell Sam. Try as he might, he couldn't. Because the disappointment was just to keen, to bitter to allow himself to reach back on his seemingly depthless resources of pep talks and reassurances and bland out lies, his fear of what was going to happen to him just too great.

Because he couldn't hurt Sam.

And if this hadn't worked, he'd have to find another way.

They'd finished refilling the grave in silence so thick and heavy, is almost felt suffocating. He'd put that on the heat still coiling up from the hole at first, then the exertion from the dig. That and his still physical wooziness from that pill he'd taken, which had helped him stay below the radar of his own emotions. It had worked, there was no denying that and while he still felt this strong sense of wrong at what he'd done, the sense of wrong that he'd not only done it, but kept it from his brother to top it off – again - he still knew that there was nothing else he could have done.

The only way to keep himself from lashing out towards the only person he loved anymore. More than he loved himself. So no, he didn't regret it. Not really.

The only regrets he had were that he hadn't been strong enough, in the end, to fight this off. Because he should have been. Should still be. He should have been stronger than those people that had been affected before him. Especially since he'd found out what was causing it.

He'd never been possessed before, not like their dad or even Sam, and Dean had seen them fight, had seen them break the damn hold that thing had had over them. His dad had been able to fight it off long enough for Sam to be able to break the paralysis, to grab the colt, stop him from killing his oldest son.

Sam…well, Sam had had moments of lucidity, Dean was sure of it, but with the binding link branded into his skin it just had been stronger than him. The demon had known that Sam was way stronger than their dad had ever been, had known that Sam was too good…to pure, deep down for them to be able to break him that easily. So he or she or whatever had taken extra care to make the spell extra strong and unbreakable.

And Dean knew, without any doubt, that, if Sam had really tried to kill him with that shot, he'd have done it. Sam was a better shot than that, it had been a rooky mistake, just hitting his shoulder like that. For a killing shot, Sam would have aimed straight at his head.

So that only added to his self reproaches right now.

He should be able to beat this.

He _would_ be able to beat this.

But to do that, he had to get the one thing that made him weak, the one thing that could make him fail, out of the way.

Sam…

He had to get Sam out of his sight so he'd be able to fight this. He was almost sure that he'd stand no chance with Sam right there, looking at him, him getting more mad at his little brother by the minute. His almost unconditional love for Sam making matters worse and worse, he knew that, intensifying the hate so rapidly, it made his head spin. Even with the painkillers now wearing him down he could feel it simmering, bubbling somewhere down inside, ready to boil again as soon as the effect started to fade.

Which made him a bit desperate but at the same time he knew that he had to keep that in check too or otherwise the drugs would wane off even faster and then…

Damn, it was like a downwards spiral, like the cat catching its tale, a…well, he'd run out of metaphors here, but it was damn frustrating and he was starting to get desperate.

They finished and then retraced their steps back to the car, still the tension between them almost

tangible and Dean wished, he _wished_ that it could just all go back to _normal_ again. As normal as it had ever been for them, as it was ever going to be. If he was able to beat this.

"Want me to drive?" Dean asked, out of habit as much as simply trying to re-establish some kind of familiar rhythm between them again, but his heart wasn't into it and Sam could no doubt feel that. Besides, he really wasn't fit for driving. Which posed a tiny little problem in the plan he'd been forming over the past hour or so, but he'd find a way to get around that.

Because he simply couldn't hurt Sam.

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Once back at the motel Dean again disappeared in the bathroom as had become his habit, but Sam didn't hear any telltale signs of Dean getting sick again, simply heard the water being turned on, assuming that Dean just took a shower.

Which was fine and understandable.

Sam ambled over to the bed, dropped down, his eyes automatically turning towards the nightstand and the pill bottle he'd expected to find there.

It still peeved him that he didn't actually know about those pills, the name of the prescription one he didn't recognize as one of their usual aliases but he hadn't given it any further thought so far. Now he suspected where it might have come from, why he'd thought of it now of all times he didn't know, but he intended to check.

As if it made any difference.

He frowned when he didn't find the bottle where he had left it. Going through the drawer and finally their first aid kit still didn't turn them up.

Which again only served to fuel his suspicions of Dean tryin to knock himself out to keep himself from freaking out. Again. He didn't know why that made him so mad, but it did. He hated the secrets that they were always forced to keep from each other lately, the barriers they had to build in order to spare each other, or so they thought. He hated it. And it scared the shit out of him.

He finally found the empty bottle in the trash, not finding his suspicions confirmed, but the date written on the bottle would fit…kinda. It just had to be from back then, the only way he could think of Dean having got a hold of this without Sam knowing being back then, back when he'd shot him. Maybe Jo had given them to Dean… But again, what difference did it make?

Great. So, what now? If it had worked, if their scheme had worked and the Ragazara had been eliminated, then what? They'd have to talk about this, there was no way around it. Dean would sure as hell beat himself up over it.

Sam knew the feeling. He'd been there, done that. Was still doing it, from time to time when remembering those days, days of not being in control, days he barely had any recollection of but some dreary, blurred images and smells and sounds.

And Dean had never gotten tired of telling him that it had not been his fault. So he was going to play that back to his big brother now. In an infinite loop, constant replay. No mercy. No matter how much Dean would beg for him to stop.

Once they'd find a way out of this, if it hadn't worked already, which he doubted. Very much so.

That was, of his brother's behaviour was anything to go by.

When Dean finally re-emerged from the shower he seemed clean but everything but rested.

He quietly motioned for Sam to take his turn, carefully avoiding to fully face him before getting dressed again in clean clothes, which Sam did notice, somewhere in the back of his mind but still somehow failed to question at the moment. Hell, he'd been through a lot too, lately.

Sam turned on the water, intent on not letting it run too long since the warm water supply sure would run out anytime soon, even though Dean had actually not taken his time today. He was about to get undressed when he realized that he'd left his razor out by the sink in the kitchenette where he'd shaved this morning. Since he wanted that done in one go he went back into the room again to retrieve it…

…and stopped dead in his tracks.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

tbc

_AN:_

_Alright…so…I thought long and hard of what to write here that would even come close to expressing what I'm really feeling…_

_I'm still in denial, kind of, about all the shit I unloaded on you last week – by all means, I had no right to do that, and I'm really, really sorry. But at the same time I was completely overwhelmed by all the wonderful, supportive reviews and PMs I received – honestly, I mean, you couldn't care less about how I feel and still you took the time to write me and tried to make me feel better and I can't tell you how much that means to me…_

_I know it's pitiful, but it did make me feel better, it really did. _

_I'm doing a little better now, even though things are far from easy right now… we had to bury a long time family friend, my dog injured herself, my car had to have a repair that cost more than the whole damn thing is still worth, I had loads of trouble at work and then, to top it all off, I had to cancel my summer vacation… I know, small things, but when they all come together at once, it can be pretty overwhelming at times…_

_Anyway, I'm not going there again…because things are looking up and you all had something to do with that too…I wrote like crazy, which took my mind of some things and then…and that's something you guys might understand…I finally got to watch My bloody Valentine 3D – yeah, I know – being released at the end of march somehow sucks, but the movie…well, damn…you know *sigh*._

_And, finally, _amazon_ sent me the volume 1 dvd box of supernatural season 4. So…looks like I got something to look forward to now!_

_Ok, I'll cut this short now…_

_Thank you all, honestly, for your kind words and all the support, you're wonderful, every single one of you. Thanks._

_And thanks again to OcherMe for being patient enough to beta my story and being kind enough to make me believe that my mistakes were not as bad as they really were._

_Other than that – I hope you keep liking this story – I'd love to know what you think and I promise that next time, I won't write an author's note that's longer than the actual chapter ;-) _

_Thanks you so much and till next week!_


	9. Chapter 9

_Thank you all for sticking with me till now and hopefully a little longer still…_

_I still don't own them…what a shame._

_Thanks to my beta, OcherMe, who beta-ed this on such short notice because I was too confused to send it to her in time…I'll take my own advice to heart from now on and work on a deadline, so I don't have to stress you out that much anymore, I promise!_

_Alright, please read the next chapter and hopefully enjoy:_

**Chapter 9**

Dean stood at the door, fully dressed with a packed duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

For a second, he looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Then his expression changed from shock to shame to cold set determination within the course of a mere second.

"Sam…" his voice a mixture of pleading and annoyance.

"Dean, what the hell…where are you going?"

Sam was rooted in place with disbelief, too stunned to move, his body paralyzed in the doorframe between bathroom and bedroom.

"Sam…just…just let me go, alright? I'll come back when I figured something out."

The defeat in his voice felt like a slap in the face.

"What? NO, Dean. You're not leaving. You're not just walking out on me…"

Dean still hadn't moved away from the door, his hand still on the knob.

"It didn't work."

As simple as that, his voice emotionless, levelled, eyes carefully hooded by long lashes, using the dim light in the room to keep his facial expression shadowed. As simple as that, as if it would explain everything.

Sam nodded - fingers twitching nervously - barely refrained himself from running them through his hair, over his face, anything to keep them occupied.

Not that he hadn't suspected…

"OK, alright. So we'll think of something else. No problem. We still have time."

Dean's face hardened and Sam could see his fingers curling more tightly around the doorknob.

"See, that's where you're wrong, Sam. We don't have time.

_I _don't have time. I can feel it and I know that you know it too. If I stay, I'm gonna hurt you and that's not gonna happen. So just…just step back and let me go. I'll…call you or something once I've got a plan…"

"Like hell you are."

Sam closed the space between them in two long strides - that was at least one thing that spoke for tiny, ill built motel rooms right there, had his hand on Dean's in the matter of seconds, clamping down on it hard.

"You are not leaving…you are not going to go through this on your own. We'll figure this out together."

"Let go of me Sam."

The growl was so low and threatening, Sam should have known better than to forcefully yank his brother's hand away from the door then, trying to push him back into the room, away from the exit. But apparently, he didn't know better.

He never saw the swing coming and while the force behind it wasn't enough to knock him out, it still was enough to send him sprawling. Sam's head barely avoided hitting the edge of the table he landed next to, his head throbbing and ringing fiercely for Dean had managed to punch him right on the ear.

He should have been up on his feet faster, but the next thing he knew Dean was flinging himself towards him and Sam rolled to the side, tumbling one of the chairs in the process. He didn't make it all the way, though and within seconds Dean had grabbed his hair, dragging him back into the middle of the room, pinning him down on his back again and sitting on top of him. Both Dean's hands clenched into the hem of Sam t-shirt, twisting the fabric in his fists, pulling Sam's head off the floor in the process.

Dean's eyes were spitting fire, dark and deep and _not Dean_ and at that moment Sam knew with absolute certainty that it hadn't worked, all the work of that night had been for nothing. He also knew that he could not, under any circumstances, let Dean take off like this. Not that he'd needed any ratification, but there simply was no way he'd unleash this…_him_ on the world outside. There was no way he'd let his brother go off to destroy himself.

The back of Sam's head came down hard on the floor, once, twice, and for the first time since they'd moved in here Sam was thankful for the rotten smelling and shaggy carpet since it took a lot of the force out of the blows.

A lot, but not all of it.

Sam's hands automatically shot up, grabbing hold of Dean's forearms, digging his fingers into strong, coiled muscle, holding on tight.

Sam knew that it wasn't Dean, not the Dean he knew at least, that held him down, that had hit him, had hurt him, and still it was damn hard to resist fighting back with all the force he usually would in such a situation.

He was left momentarily stunned, the pressure of Dean's fists still on his chest, moving towards his throat, working their way up to crush his windpipe, to strangle him, choke him...

And then, suddenly it was gone, his brother's weight still there but his hands had unclenched and eased off and when Sam forced his eyes to focus again he could see Dean. _H__is Dean_, face scrunched up and in pain, one hand, the right one, detaching itself from Sam, shooting towards his forehead and there was no mistaking the expression of pure, unveiled terror that washed over his features like a tidal wave.

"Dean…" He should really get a dollar for every time he said his brother's name…he'd be a rich man. No more hustling pool, no credit card frauds to get them through life.

_And why the hell was he thinking about this now of all times? _

"Look what you've done…look what you've made me do…"

Dean's voice almost a whimper and he pushed himself backwards, using Sam's chest as leverage to propel himself up and away from his brother, landing unceremoniously hard on his butt as Sam failed to let go of his arm in time. He crab-crawled away from Sam until his back hit one of the beds and stopped his retreat, the heel of his right hand still pressed hard against his forehead, right between his eyes.

"I can't…I can't hurt you. Just let me go, Sam…please…"

But he had all but given up on it, Sam could see it in his eyes, his posture. The way he had dropped his bag and didn't even try to get back to it anymore.

"You won't hurt me, Dean. Alright? I'll make sure you won't…"

"Like that worked right now?"

Sam pushed himself up into a sitting position, mirroring his brother's posture as he leant awkwardly against the one chair that remained standing, fighting for breath, working hard to make his voice sound low and soothing and as unstrained as possible.

"That's nothing…it's nothing. Just…please…don't walk out on me, alright? We'll figure this out together. Just let me take care of things for once. I know it's hard but you'll see I won't do half as bad…"

It was meant to be a teasing remark but Sam knew himself that Dean was beyond that. He himself was beyond it. And neither of them was smiling. Sam realized that Dean was sweating again, his brother basically drenched in perspiration, shaking as if he'd just run a marathon. At least he seemed lucid enough at the moment.

And still Sam knew that he had to get a little distance between them, however hard it was, however wrong it seemed, to give Dean time to regroup.

"Why don't you…go take another shower. Calm back down."

Again talking to him as if one might talk to a wild, untamed animal. Which Dean was, even on his good days but ever the more so right now.

It took forever for Dean to agree to it, dropping his hand and nodding shakily before he picked himself up from the floor, refusing Sam's offer of help with an almost invisible shake of his head.

Sam let him go then, quenching the violent tremors that started to shake his body as the realization of what had just happened, of what almost happened, set in.

He watched Dean close the door of the bathroom behind him, unconsciously checking his mind if there had been windows in the bathroom that his brother could escape through. When he was sure that there wasn't any way out but the front door, when he heard the water being turned back on, he allowed himself to exhale a shaky breath, knees almost jelly all of a sudden as he slumped against the wall, catching his breath for a second. When he had himself under reasonable control again he pushed himself up, grabbed his jacket off the table, fumbling for his mobile, almost tearing out the pocket in the process, quietly sneaking out the front door once he'd gotten a hold of it.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Sam stood outside their motel room, clad only in a t-shirt and his jeans, shivering a little in the cool night air. Yet there was no way he was going back in just now…not right now. They both needed a little time to wind back down, get themselves under control again.

He leaned his back against the Impala, slid down the sleek metal until he sat on the floor, propped up against the door next to the front tire. He was careful not to make any scratches or dents into the black lacquer, knowing that _that_ certainly would just get his brother going again. Not that it needed that much, most likely, but Sam might not be able to keep himself from fighting back then. It certainly wouldn't end prettily, either way.

He kept his eyes trained on the closed door of their room, the low light of the bedside lamp shining through the thin, brown curtain yet he could not make out any outline beyond it. Dean was most likely still was in the bathroom, hiding or raging, whatever his condition currently was and Sam knew that he didn't have much time. Either way he needed to get back in there eventually. To do damage control.

Either way…

He scrolled down the list of contacts in his phone, connecting the number he'd been looking for and held the receiver to his ear, listening to the dull ringing in his ear. He sat there waiting, fidgeting, curling his toes on the rough asphalt of the parking lot, relishing the feeling of the tiny, sharp stones digging into his skin. The feeling at least keeping him grounded, telling him that this indeed was real and that he needed to focus and figure this out. Fast. Before it was too late. Which could be soon, at the rate this was going down.

"Hello?"

The rough voice on the other end of the line ripping Sam out of his reverie so suddenly, he physically jumped, almost dropping the phone before pulling himself together again.

"Uhm…hey…Bobby, it's me, Sam."

A short pause on the other end, then the voice, softer now, came again. This time Sam felt himself go almost weak with relief, to his astonishment felt almost close to tears. This was just beginning to be too much for him, goddamn it.

"Hey Sam. How are ya' guys doing? Anything good to hunt where you're at?"

Busying his hands, Sam started picking at the seam of his jeans, worrying the light beige thread, twisting and turning it until he was just short of tearing it off.

"Yeah…well…about that…the reason I'm calling…" Sam stuttered, faltered, then blurted it out, cutting the small-talk. This was Bobby he was talking to. The only person on the whole goddamn planet he could talk to right now. He'd understand.

"We…we need your help, Bobby. It's Dean…something's wrong…"

Again he felt the tears pressing against the back of his eyelids as he squeezed them closed for a second, digging thumb and forefinger into the corner of both eyes, trying to center himself. This was not going to help. At least now, he wasn't alone in this anymore, right?

"Why, Sam, what's wrong? Are you guys alright? Is Dean hurt?"

Funny, how Bobby would automatically assume that Dean was hurt when in trouble. Well, it wasn't such an implausible assumption, because even though Sam was the one being tossed around, stumbling and being strangled on a more regular basis, Dean was the one who got into more serious trouble almost periodically.

Bobby would know that.

Besides, Sam calling him for help would clearly imply something to do with his stubborn, danger-seeking and self-destructing big brother, right?

"Sam…Sam, talk to me. Is something wrong? Are you hurt? Where are you guys?"

Clearly worried now, ready to jump up and get to them, no matter where they were, Sam knew that and he felt an impossible tug of affection when thinking that someone did care for them enough to leave everything right away to come to their aide, that there should be anyone who cared this much for them…

"Sam…?"

"No, Bobby…I mean…we're not hurt…not really, nothing serious at least. We're in a small town near Boston. But something…something's happened. Something's wrong…with Dean and I don't think I can handle this on my own."

He took a deep breath, feeling so much stronger all of a sudden, now, that he again had someone else by his side to talk this through, to figure it out. His brother was usually the one there with him through everything bad that had happened to them throughout their lives, only when it affected Dean, Sam didn't think he could handle this by himself.

"OK, tell me then…tell me how I can help."

Simple and down to the point, Sam felt his own resolve strengthening gradually. They could figure this out…with Bobby's help he was sure that they were going to be alright.

So he told Bobby everything…everything that had happened, everything they'd learned so far. Bobby just listened and grunted every now and then on the other end - already Sam could not only hear the wheels in his friends brain turning, but could actually hear books being taken off shelves, could hear pages rustling as Bobby got right to the research while still listening. Without doubt immediately grasping the seriousness and urgency of the situation.

"It's some kind of anger-demon…goes by a dozen different names…a Ragazara. But it's not like any other demon we've had dealings with so far. It's not an individual being…it's not some poor soul that has crawled out of hell and possesses human bodies to get what it wants…it's more…like a creation of our own minds. A creature born out of anger and hatred and of the lowest human instincts. I've…we've found a couple of different legends from all over the world. They describe this creature, born out of a person that, for whatever reason loathes, hates, detests someone or something so bad, he kind of _creates_ this demon, an inner demon, makes it solidify and take over his body. It cannot simply leave this body on its own free will, either. It is forced to stay and swell and grow, fuelled by the hatred the host feels and it in turn intensifies and boosts the anger up till the person does the unthinkable and…commits the ultimate act of killing someone…someone close to the host. Someone he loved more than anything. The Ragazara does that because it's the only way for it to get out…to leave the human shell it's inhabiting behind, to take over a new one, like a leech. Once the host has killed, the demon makes it feel guilty, again pushing that emotion to a level that the person can't bear anymore and finally kills himself to make the pain go away. But before it does that, it chooses another host, someone to strengthen it further, to carry it on and feed it with more hatred to keep it alive and make it grow…"

Sam had to stop then, took a shuddering breath, head spinning from finally being able to voice all that he'd learned out loud, tell it to someone. Somehow that always made things seem more real, made it possible for him to get it all in order, to figure things out faster. Usually, Dean would be the one there with him to discuss things, to add his own thoughts. Together as a team, they complemented each other perfectly, each adding his own strengths to the other's, making them an almost invincible team.

Almost.

Because it was this strength exactly that made them an easy target for supernatural or human intervention. Break them apart and they were left wide open, vulnerable.

Now, with the ability to talk to his brother taken from him, Sam hadn't realized how much he'd needed this. Bobby the only other person in the world who was able to hold up to his big brother's standards, Sam realized, now that dad was gone, too. But with the realization of what he was facing right now also came the panic, the fear, the whole weight of the situation bearing down on him with an almost crushing force.

This thing was something primal, something that lingered in most anybody, something that everybody inhibited, somewhere deep inside, hopefully never to be let out, ever. Something like this…it didn't need permit, didn't need reason, the madness of this world not being reasonable to have ground to grow, reason to exist.

The Ragazara was eating off Dean, was using him for its own purposes, whatever those would be. And Sam had to stop it. Because his brother was an almost bottomless source of guilt and anger and hurt to feed off. If it got through with Dean, it would be almost unstoppable.

And it would most likely break Dean in the process.

Sam couldn't let that happen.

He was aware of Bobby's voice again, so he concentrated on the low, gravelly tone of his friend over the receiver, helping him focus. Didn't work quite as well as with his brother, but it would need to be enough for now.

"…infection…? Sam, you still with me? Did you learn about infection? Do you know how it switches hosts?"

More rustling of pages and the thump of a book hitting the floor. Sam squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, fighting to stay above water for a while longer.

"Yeah…it…transfers again through violence…figures, right? It usually makes the host attack someone. The last victim before Dean was mugged on his way home from a party. Pushed to the ground and scratched on the neck. He didn't think much of it, not even when the wound got slightly infected. Then, this guy, Mark, who was arrested after killing his wife, didn't get to kill himself. When we interviewed him he got aggravated, jumped Dean and cut his arm. The same pattern here. I noticed him changing almost right away…the same evening still. We know about one more…a student at Harvard, with the other victims before that, there's no one left to tell us, or at least I didn't find anyone but I'd be putting my money on them getting hurt before _turning_ as well."

He could practically _hear _Bobby nodding.

"So, when the host injures someone to transfer the demon to someone else, how come he's still possessed enough to commit suicide after? I mean, I get the guilt part and all, I even get that some might be rattled enough to kill themselves, but most people would still be too…selfish to do it, Sam, too frightened. Fortunately, not all people house this kind of self-destructing behaviour."

"I thought about this too. The only explanation I could come up with is that the Ragazara leaves something behind…like a trace of its essence, a shed skin or something the like. Something that makes sure that the host ends what he's started so the demon can go on undetected. The lore is not really precise on this part, there's a lot of different information that could be true or not, but no matter how you look at it…it doesn't help me solving the matter of how to end this…of how to stop this without…without…"

He broke off there, choking on the words, not being able to force them out in the open. Of making them real.

_He didn't know how to stop this__ without killing the host._

The only thing he'd been able to find, in any lore, be it Persian or Russian, Chinese or Congolese, French or Italian…it always culminated to only one possible end of the string of possessions.

Kill the host before he's able to infect anyone else. Simple as that. Kill the host and the demon/virus dies with it. Bury it underneath a field of sage, cover the body with salt or lavender or whatever other plant or herb the respective country or community knew about and could get their hands on.

Still, one fact stayed the same, no matter where he'd looked.

_Kill the host._

_End the reign of anger and destruction._

_Get on with your life._

Only, it would not happen this way. Not here, not now. Not with Dean.

Bobby seemed to be able to read his silence. Sam could hear the hard swallow on the other end of the phone as the implication caught up with his old friend.

A minute of silence, maybe two, then a new resolution seemed to take over and Sam again could hear Bobby getting to work, could imagine the seasoned hunter get up and go through the stacks and shelves of books suffocating his house, looking for the solution to their problem, for the way to save the one person that Sam had left now.

Sam had again trained his eyes on the door to their room, still not making out any movement behind the drawn yet flimsy curtains, picturing Dean in the bathroom, lost and _alone_, Sam not there with him.

Just a little longer…a little longer and they'd figure this out…

"I take it you've tried holy water and silver and the name of god, right?"

"Yeah, Bobby. Those were the first things I tried. Pretty much put holy water into everything Dean had to drink or eat and I swear, one more time I'm muttering _christo_ under my breath, I'm gonna choke on the word. Didn't help nothing though."

"Alright…would have been too easy now, wouldn't it? Listen Sam…I do have a vague idea…or rather, I think I remember something, only I can't quite place it yet…I'll have to hit the books, see what I can find out… Think you can hang in there for a little longer?"

_No, he didn't think that. He didn't think he'd stand another minute of this._

"Yeah…sure, sure Bobby. Just hurry up, will ya. Don't know why, but somehow he's going down much faster than the rest. It took Mark almost a week to finally snap. The girl before that too. We're only up to day three yet and already he is…he's so damn _angry_, Bobby. It scares the shit out of me…"

Sam could hear Bobby stopping whatever he was doing right now, could hear him drag in a breath, could practically _see_ him running his hand through his hair, over his chin.

"Did he hurt you, Sam?" His voice very soft all of a sudden, tentative.

And again it almost made Sam want to break down and cry.

"No, Bobby…no, he didn't… He knows, you know? He knows what's happening to him and it's killing him that he can't stop it. He's fighting real hard, but I don't think that he will be able to control himself much longer…"

"Ok, Sam. I'll hurry, alright? I think I know who to call about this. Just give me a couple of hours and I'll have something for you, OK? Just try not to aggravate him, try to stay calm yourself. He's not himself, never forget that. He does not mean whatever he's saying or doing. He's not really _Dean _right now. Alright? Sam?"

"Sure Bobby…I know. Thanks. I don't know what I would do… Thanks. I'll wait for your call."

With that Sam snapped the phone shut, breaking the connection.

He stayed where he was for another couple of minutes, dreading having to go back in, fearing what he might find there. A raging pit-bull of a deadly hunter, ready to strike again, to end this, or a broken and guilty heap of a man that had once been his brother? He had no idea. And he was freaked out good out about either option.

Finally, because he knew that he couldn't put if off forever, Sam pushed himself off the ground and dragged his weary body back to their room. Easing the door open quietly and slipping inside he found the room still empty.

The initial surge of panic died down quickly when he heard the water in the adjoining bathroom still running, a little steam making it's way out from underneath the crack between door and floor, snaking its way into the room before dissolving quickly in the slight chill of the room.

Sam went over to the aged, brown heater in the corner, turned in onto the lowest setting, letting the room warm up a bit before retiring on his bed, back against the headboard, knees drawn up against his chest, elbows resting on top, jutting his chin forward so he could lever it on his forearms. Waiting.

The book was still there, hidden underneath his pillow where he'd stashed it before going into the bathroom. The damn thing mocking him, daring him to read it again, like the more than two dozen times before, challenging him to find something new on it's tattered pages. But he knew it would be fruitless. He'd gone over it time and time again until he'd pretty much milked the damn thing dry. Had added his own research from the internet to it, still not getting much farther. He'd reached the end of his wisdom, so to speak. The only hope resting on Bobby's back now. And it was a strong enough back to give him hope again at least for a little longer.

After a couple of minutes Sam again started to panic, fearing that somehow Dean might have hurt himself, maybe slipped and fell in the tub or something for he had been in that bathroom for quite a while now. Even Dean, who loved taking never-ending showers usually stopped once the water ran cold and a motel of this category sure wouldn't sport a boiler big enough to ensure hot water for more than twenty, thirty minutes, tops.

But then he heard a sound, a sound that sounded suspiciously like a choked out sob, or a strangled gag and he knew that, at least, his brother was still in there and…well…not alright, but alive and as OK as he could be under the circumstances.

Sam heard the crack of something hitting something else, the first something sounding suspiciously like flesh and bone, the second one more like tiled wall or floor and Sam slid down from the headboard, shuffling his body underneath the blankets. He was suddenly chilled and shivering, rolling up on his side, facing the bathroom door, listening to his brother punishing himself for turning against his little brother, his family and best friend, the one person he'd sworn to protect. Always.

Eventually, exhaustion won out and Sam slipped into uneasy slumber, the tickle of tears still burning behind his now tightly closed eyelids.

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

It could have barely been more than two hours, tops, when the ringing of his phone ripped Sam out of a surprisingly deep slumber.

He reached for it as if on autopilot, already mostly out of bed and on his way to the bathroom before he even was fully awake again.

He had noticed his brother coming back into the room some time ago, had heard him get into his own bed and most likely drop off to sleep so Sam didn't want to wake him just now, instead choosing the privacy of the bathroom to take the call.

It only could be one person. Or so he hoped.

"Bobby…?"

There was a short pause on the other end of the line, the background noise suggesting the caller to be driving in a car and for a second Sam feared that it was someone else entirely calling him, before the gruff voice on the other end proved him otherwise.

"Yeah…Sam. Sorry to call you at this time…"

As if it mattered.

"'s alright. Did you find something?" _…Please, Please tell me you found something…_

"Uhm, yes, Sam. I was right about that source. Found an exorcism that might work…"

"Might? Might is not good enough, Bobby."

His voice maybe a bit desperate now. _Might _was just not _good_ enough.

"Yeah…I know. But that's the only thing I can tell you right now, son. We are…pretty sure it will work, this kind of demon not your everyday foe and all, but my source says he knows someone who's encountered one before and he's used it then…"

"Alright…good. How can I…can you send it to me, email it or fax it to the motel or something? I need to get it as soon as possible."

"Listen, Sam. This is not just your everyday exorcism we're talking about here. It might…you can't do this alone. I'm on my way to the airport as we speak…"

"Airport? Something wrong with your truck?"

"Nothing wrong with my truck, Sam. Only, might take me a while to get to Boston all the way from North Dakota. Didn't think you'd fancy waiting that long. Don't think Dean would, either. I found a plane that is leaving in about two hours so if you'll text me the address of the motel I'll take a cab once I get there and be with you by noon the latest."

Sam felt the clot in his throat grow. If Bobby didn't even take the time to drive to them, it had to be bad. Bobby's aversion to flying not as deeply rooted as Dean's, but those two men were far too fond of their cars to even consider flying most of the time, even when the distance and time-advantage clearly suggested it.

"Sam…you still there?"

"Yeah…sure. Bobby, uhm, why…how bad is it?" No use beating around the bush.

The pause from the other end didn't suggest anything good.

"Why don't we talk about this once I get there? Listen, I can't really bring any of my weapons on the plane - not that we'd need those - but I can bring close to everything else we need for the ritual. Just make sure that you got your Latin up to date and we'll worry about the rest later."

Sam had sat down on the closed lid of the toilet when he started talking to Bobby, now he leaned his head back against the brown tiles of the wall, closing his eyes and letting out a deep breath he hadn't even been aware he'd been holding in.

He still wasn't sure he'd be able to hold on till the cavalry arrived, but at least now he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Far off but there. Alright, he could handle that.

"Thanks Bobby." He croaked and there was no mistaking the honesty of his words.

"I can't even begin to explain how big we owe you after this one…"

"Well, don't go thanking me yet. Besides, I do expect you to drive me back home after. Hell, I expect to be able to drive your brother's girl myself, as a matter of fact. You might not mention that little fact to him until after we've got that thing out of him, though."

Sam had to chuckle despite himself.

"Yeah…no, I wouldn't mention that just yet. OK, you've got yourself a free ride home, then. And free board and provision until we get there." And then he added, sincere again and from the bottom of his heart: "Thanks Bobby…thanks. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Don't worry about it, Sam. You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you guys! How is he doing Sam…how are _you_ doing? And don't lie to me. You don't need to pick up on your brother's habit of making light of the situation…that's just not like you so don't even try."

Sam smiled painfully. Bobby knew them too well, there was no denying it.

"Not too well, I guess. But he's asleep now. We'll be alright, Bobby. I'll make sure of that. We'll be alright now."

And he almost meant it.

When they'd hung up on each other, Bobby declaring that he was almost at the airport, Sam stayed in the bathroom for a few minutes longer. Texting Bobby the address and coordinates, waiting. Funny, how each of them lately retreated in here to find some time alone. They should really have chosen a nicer motel then, one where the floor was actually clean and the cockroaches not quite as big when they decided to spent so much time in here…but it figured, really.

With a groan Sam finally got up again, splashing some water onto his face, checking the slightly red bruise that had started to form on the left side of his face where Dean had hit him. Nothing serious, sure, but it would probably show more clearly in the morning, reminding them both of what had happened, life and in color. Serving to enhance both guilt and worry a thousand fold.

Well, nothing he could do about it now. Besides, it was going to be over soon, right? They'd worry about the aftermath when it was all over.

He switched off the light which had done almost nothing to illuminate the room as it was, opened the door carefully to slip back into their bedroom undetected. He hated robbing Dean of even a minute of sorely needed sleep, and it was only in parts due to the fact that he was at least peaceful when resting, not wreaking havoc on himself or his brother.

Dean needed the rest, the strain this had to put on his mind as well as his body hard to imagine. Sam still remembered how absolutely spent and deflated he'd felt after getting rid of Meg…

Sam left the door slightly ajar and turned back towards his bed, tossing the phone carelessly onto the pillow when from the corner of his eyes he saw movement, a low and almost soundlessly moving shadow and within that same second, out of the corner of his other eye, he saw that his brother's bed was empty.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

tbc

_AN:_

_I once again have to thank all you guys __who read and review on a regular basis and who found such nice words to try and built me back up after my little "breakdown". I can't believe the support I got and still get …I really am glad I found he courage to post here, it's been one of the best decisions I've ever made! You guys are awesome, I mean it, each and every one of you!_

_I hope you forgive me for yet another cliffie…I hope you'll still read on and not give up on the story or me, for that matter…_

_Oh, and, just so you know, I'm trying real hard to limit myself to one episode of season 4 per day, maximum, because what the hell will I do when I've watched my way through the first eleven episodes of the volume one dvd and then have to wait for months till the second volume comes out?? What I've seen so far…awesome. Heartbreaking at times and I guess it's going to get worse in that department but I hope that in the end it won't break my heart completely…_

_So, all you guys take care, the next update should be up next week, as usual. Please let me know what you think…and thanks again!_

_Take care!  
_


	10. Chapter 10

_So, here goes the next chapter – glad you stuck with me so far._

_OcherMe beta-ed it for me, but of course I made some changes afterwards, so all mistakes are and will forever be mine! _

_Oh, and OcherMe, if you read this: I love how you manage to correct some of the sentences so they make more sense (hopefully) and still don't take my own personal style or whatever you want to call it away from it (even if that's maybe not a good thing, sometimes.) And I just love those little comments you squeeze in every once in a while - they always make me smile ;-)_

**C****hapter 10**

How he reacted as fast as he did he had no idea but Sam spun himself around and ducked at the same time, barely avoiding getting hit at the top of his head, then charging forward. He drove his shoulder into something muscular, hitting it with full force.

Sam heard a grunt and a whoosh of air being expelled as his charge drove the air out of his attacker and together they tumbled into the table, toppling it over, hitting the wall hard before collapsing onto the floor. The brunt of the impact drove the air out of both of them for a second but for some reason Sam would never quite understand, he couldn't get on his feet fast enough, even though he was on top, and suddenly his opponent gave a violent buck, twisting himself underneath Sam with surprising strength. He managed to turn to his side, kicking one elbow into Sam's abdomen and Sam toppled forward, the air momentarily catching in his throat, unable to draw in a decent breath, not quite able to expel it, either.

The attacker took the chance Sam's momentary weakness provided him with to bring one knee up, managing to dig his foot into the carpet and buck his hip up once more. He threw Sam off balance, then rolled himself away and shifted to a low crouch, one hand on the floor in front of him for leverage, the other one clutching something…something that Sam couldn't really get a look at but knew what it was nonetheless.

Dean's chin was down, almost touching his chest, the low light from the parking lot outside their door casting the upper half of his face in complete shadow. Long and lowered lashes helped to extend the darkness over his eyes, revealing nothing more of his face but the strong set of his jaw, the wide blown nostrils as he breathed heavily, yet with forced composure. His chest was heaving, the veins in his forearm standing out sharply against slightly sweaty skin.

For a moment Sam was dumbstruck and almost mesmerized by the sight of his brother, the predator that he resembled more than anything right now, the dangerously composed assailant before him who was ready to strike at any second.

Dean lifted his eyes just the tiniest bit, the poor neon-light washing into the room from the parking lot revealing narrow slits of green that reminded Sam so much of his brother, yet at the same time he couldn't have been more alien to him as he was at that exact moment. It was then that Sam knew that he couldn't hesitate…that he wasn't fighting his brother right now. He was fighting a Dean without everything that made his brother human, he was fighting Dean without a conscience, without the love for his brother, without _reason. _Without everything that made Dean _Dean._

The realization made Sam shudder…

…and then act.

Sam propelled himself forward, swung out an arm and reached for Dean's ankle, barely missing as his brother shifted his weight, his free hand shooting out to grab Sam's wrist instead, twisting it to the point Sam thought it might snap with the strain. Sam groaned out, ready to haul his whole body at his brother, tackling and felling him, no matter what that would do to his wrist in the process, when again Dean surged forward, slamming into him with full force and landing a teeth-rattling blow to Sam's jaw. When the younger hunter had cleared the cobwebs suddenly cottoning his brain he felt himself being pinned underneath his brother's muscular body once more. His back was pressed into the stale smelling carpet, his forearms painfully pushed down by Dean's knees, hands effectively immobilized.

Dean's Bowie-knife gleamed dangerously in his hand as he pressed it smugly against the soft skin of Sam's throat right above his Adam's apple. The ever sharp edge already sliced into the first layer of skin but Sam didn't dare to even hiss as he feared that this slight movement of his throat might cause the knife to embed itself deeper into his skin and flesh. Dean's eyes were vicious, almost black in the dim light of the room now.

"Dean…"

There it was again, that pleading whimper. Goddamn it. Anybody else he'd have just flipped off by now, wrenched out a shoulder or clogged out but this was _Dean_ he was talking about here. Somewhere in there, it was still Dean.

"Who the fuck were you talking to?"

It wasn't Dean's voice anymore but a low hiss, a feral snarl, nothing more.

"Dean come on…get off and lets just…"

"WHO THE FUCK WERE YOU TALKING TO?"

Dean was shouting now, little droplets of spit hitting Sam's face and he resisted the urge to squeeze his eyes shut and turn his head away. The pressure on his throat increased and Sam tensed up even more, trying to still the automated urge to swallow.

Damn, that knife was sharp. No wonder, the way Dean kept sharpening it every free minute he got.

Sam tried to contemplate his options quickly, but there weren't too many right now. Either tell the truth or not and he couldn't come up with one good reason why he should lie right now. It wasn't as if it could make matters any worse.

"I was talking to Bobby…"

A quick flash of _something_ crossed Dean's face, too fast to grasp or hold on to. Too quick for Dean himself to latch onto, it seemed.

"What were the two of you talking about, huh? Trying to sneak up on me, conspiring behind my back? Were you trying to jump me, or better yet, run away from me again, leave me behind…? Didn't think you'd need Bobby's help for that, you were doing pretty good there all by your pretty self the first time around…"

Dean's breathing was laboured, his eyes squeezed tight so only tiny slits were showing, squinting in the almost nonexistent light of the room. The only illumination came from the window where the motel's neon sign flickered in, bathing the room in dim, greenish light, giving the whole situation a slightly surreal tinge.

Sam forced himself to stay calm, to do what he did best, to assess the situation, weigh it, try to talk his way out of it. Dean himself once told him that he could talk his way into and out of almost anything, it was one of the reasons Sam had decided he wanted to become a lawyer, as a matter of fact. Actually, Dean telling him once upon a time that he'd make a good lawyer, negotiating with him over everything, turning his words around in his mouth until they'd fit his needs.

And if that didn't work right now, he had to find an opening in his brother's act, his posture, anything to get the drop on him. It wouldn't be easy, Sam knew that, Dean being the skilled hunter that he was, but Sam had two advantages at the moment:

One, he'd been trained by the best, by Dean himself, and their dad, so he knew the moves, knew how to read the signs.

Two, he had the advantage of reason.

At least he hoped that it indeed was an advantage at the moment.

Because as sure as anything, Dean was impulsive on a good day, but with even the last snippets of rationality taken from him Sam didn't know if he had any idea how long it would take his brother to snap completely. He had no idea how his brother would react.

The only thing Sam could count on was some last piece of _Dean _still being in there, somewhere, some last piece that would keep him from hurting his own brother. Because Sam didn't know how far he could go himself, in the end, to keep Dean from doing anything stupid, something that he'd come to regret later. And if he actually managed to do harm to his little brother, Sam knew that it didn't need any anger demon, no fucking Ragazara to drive Dean over the edge, once he'd realize what he'd done.

"Answer me…what the hell were you talking about?"

Sam clenched his hands, forced himself to breathe low and steady, forced himself not to swallow again when he felt the knife slicing deeper, severing another paper-thin layer of skin.

"Dean, come on…try to think this through. You know what happened, right? Try to remember… I'm on your side…I'm trying to help you!"

Dean spat out a laugh, leaned closer to Sam's face, the tips of their noses almost brushing.

"I think you're lying. I think you're trying to sneak behind my back. You were trying to fucking. Sneak. Behind. My. Fucking. Back…"

"Sneak behind your back to do what, Dean? What would I do…? You're my brother. What do you think I would do?"

That seemed to stun Dean for a moment, his forehead wrinkling as he kept his eyes trained on Sam, staring at him yet unable to come up with an answer.

"Shut up…just shut the fuck up."

"Dean, come on. Look at me. _Look at me_. I would never hurt you…this is not you…you don't mean that…you are not yourself… Just look at me and try to remember…please."

Sam would have liked to think that it was his logic or clever reasoning that got Dean to actually _listen_ to his words, but the truth was, it most likely was nothing he said, but rather the way he said it. The slight undercurrent of pleading, of fear in his voice, maybe the sheer look of desperation in his eyes, eyes that his brother never had been able to deny anything. A whole lifetime of training, conditioning, of reacting to the slightest change in his baby brother's voice and his demeanour was too much to get rid off that easily.

Dean stared at him for minutes it seemed, then suddenly his shoulders slumped forward while the hand holding the knife stayed at Sam's throat. The fingers of his other hand were braced next to Sam's head on the floor, digging into the carpet. Dean's head dropped onto his chest, chin touching his t-shirt, droplets of sweat soaking into the fabric, staining it dark almost instantly. Sam could see Dean squeeze his eyes shut, see him wince in apparent pain, the muscles in his biceps bulging as he fought to lift his hand to his head to massage his temple. He didn't succeed, didn't make if off the ground at all but his upper body moved away from Sam's ever so slightly in the process of trying, giving Sam that small opening that he needed.

Sam waited a split second until he both saw and felt his brother's knife-hand move away from his throat the tiniest bit, barely a fraction of an inch but enough nonetheless. He knew the move was dangerous, knew he could hurt himself remarkably if it went wrong, but he also knew that he didn't have much time. Dean was most likely too far gone to react fully on big brother mode, even though Sam could see how hard he was struggling.

Sam bucked upwards, conscious of keeping his legs down so he wouldn't push Dean right into his own throat with that knife, but aiming to push him towards his own left instead. Relying on the fact that Dean, holding the knife in his right hand, would need to catch his body weight with his right arm and therefore being forced to let the knife slip, or so he hoped, without too much pressure, not doing too much harm in the process.

Under _normal_ circumstances, it would never have worked, had Dean been completely on top of his game a simple ploy like that would have made him grin and hold on tighter. But then again, if he'd been alright, it would have never come to this.

Sam felt a burning sensation as the knife cut through another couple of layers of skin, Dean holding on tighter than he'd anticipated, but Sam wouldn't allow the pain to cause him to stop or falter for even a second.

He wrenched his hand from underneath his brother's knee, rolling himself over, immediately digging his own knee into Dean's abdomen, drawing a strangled gasp/groan from. Instantly Sam grabbed Dean's knife-hand with all the strength he could muster while struggling to get a grip on the other one, still free, still flailing.

Sam received a hit, loose fisted but still stunning, to his temple and another one to his lip before he managed to finally grab a hold of Dean's free arm, bringing it down to the floor with as much force as he could manage, all the time struggling to find leverage on Dean's right. Sam dug his fingers as hard as he could into his brother's wrist, searching for that spot, that thread of nerves that would cause his fingers to loosen their grip and let go of the deadly weapon he was still clutching tightly, as if holding on to dear life.

Dean struggled, spitting out a haze of unintelligible words, twisting and kicking and it was by pure determination alone that Sam managed not to be fought off this time. He found the pressure point, felt the knife slip from Dean's grasp as his finger's went lax for a second but the pain and loss of his weapon only seemed to make Dean double his efforts. And it didn't look as if he might let off any time soon.

Sam was barely able to hang on anymore, his brother might have been smaller than him but he was solid muscle and even though Sam always teased him about his outrageous eating habits there was not one excess pound of fat on his brother's body.

It was damn hard to hold him down.

And it was even harder to make a decision as to how to subdue him.

"Dean, please…just stop. Stop. I'm not trying to hurt you, alright? It's me…Sam, I'm only trying to help…"

This time Dean didn't stop, not even one second as he again managed to bring one knee up to hit Sam square in the back.

There was no use delaying the inevitable anymore.

Sam knew he had to be fast, he had about a second to act.

"I'm sorry, Dean…" he mumbled and that actually gave Dean pause, if only for a second.

Sam let go of Dean's right hand, choosing that one because it was the one still bandaged, still swollen and therefore probably not as strong. It was quick enough though, clawing for Sam's throat. Sam didn't even try to twist away, but clenched his free hand into a fist and hit Dean, hard, on the temple.

It wasn't enough to knock him out completely, but Dean's body went limp, head rolling to the side and even though all Sam wanted to do at that moment was hold him, make sure he was alright, _apologize_ for crying out loud he knew that the window he'd been given was tiny to say the least. He had to act fast before Dean was up to par again.

Sam grabbed the knife and basically threw it through the still open door of the bathroom, out of both their reach. Then he grabbed Dean, who was groaning slightly but remained boneless otherwise, under the armpits and dragged him over towards his bed, pulling him on and leaving him quickly to dig through his duffel, cringing and sighing in relief at the same time when finding what he'd been looking for.

Dean was already starting to stir on the bed again, turning to his side, attempting to lift himself up, cradling his head in his hands, still too woozy to make much sense of anything, most likely still too numbed to get up and lash out again.

"Stay down…please stay down." Sam mumbled, more to himself than Dean, probably, as he leaned over his brother's huddled form, taking a hold of his right hand.

He winced in sympathy at the sight of the still bandaged wrist, the limb underneath the once again bloody gauze swollen, the puffy flesh extending up towards his fingers, leaving them pudgy and purple and obviously painful.

"Damn it…"

Sam remembered Dean's fight with the bathroom tiles then, a couple of hours ago when he'd come back into the room.

But he'd been able to hold on to the knife not too long ago so it couldn't be that bad, could it?

Deciding that the hand didn't need any more aggravation, Sam rolled Dean onto his back again, holding him down until he stopped struggling. Then he snapped one end of the shiny silver metal cuffs they'd once snatched from a sheriff's office on their escape around Dean's left wrist, quickly fixing the other end around the bedpost above his brother's head.

Dean didn't stop struggling, even mostly out of it he still kept up his incessant efforts to free himself from Sam's grasp, writhing and wriggling, tugging on his newly attached restrains without really knowing that they were there. His eyes weren't open yet his lips kept moving, mumbling, cursing, some words more intelligible than others, all of them furious and angry, his mind apparently fighting on where his body already wanted to give up the fight and just rest, just for a while.

Sam just stood there, holding on to Dean, mumbling soothing words without real meaning, praying that his stubborn brother would finally just let go and let himself rest. Easy had never been something Dean Winchester did well, Sam knew that.

He remembered a time when Dean had been sick, a cold that had developed right into a nasty pneumonia because Dean wouldn't freaking listen and stay in bed as their dad had told him to. He'd insisted on walking Sam to school when John had left on a hunt, had picked him up after again. By the time his temperature had climbed up to over 103 degrees, Sam, who had been only about 10 years old, had to fight like a madman to basically tie Dean to the bed in order to keep him still, to force him to rest and heal.

He'd thought it was hard then, him still being smaller than his older brother, but that had been nothing compared to right now.

"Come on…come on. Just relax, alright. Just relax. I'm right here, it's going to be alright. Bobby's on his way. He'll take care of us, he's found a way to help…just relax."

Sam's voice had taken on an almost singing cadence, knowing that music helped Dean calm himself down on pretty much every occasion he could think of.

He had to be tired, he simply had to. If he'd just let himself, his body would cherish the sleep, Sam was sure of it. The hit on the head sure had helped speed things along a little and Sam felt guilty as hell but there was nothing else he could have done.

As if just remembering it he suddenly felt the sting and burn emanating from the cut on his throat. The wound wasn't too deep, he was still talking and breathing after all, so it was nothing to get all excited about. Even though it did feel kind of strange, the sensation of the warm blood trailing down his throat to soak into the hem of his t-shirt chilling his skin, making him shiver.

This had been too damn close. He knew that it would have almost ended here…

And still he had no doubt that Dean could have taken him out far too easily, if this _thing_ had really had complete control over his brother.

"You are so much stronger than this, you hear me? Just let go for now and I'll make sure that it won't get you, alright? I'll make sure that we'll get through this…"

It might have been a bit too late for that, Sam knew that much, but he needed the lie as much as Dean would need it, if he heard it at all.

One look at his watch told him that it was still some hours until Bobby would get here and he felt his heart sink a little at the prospect of sitting here all night and half of the day to wait for their friend. But if that was what it took then so be it. As long as they'd make it through this in the end, Sam thought he could deal with almost everything.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Dean struggled for the better part of an hour, not resting, never stopping to writhe and wriggle, never stopping to talk but after a while Sam gave up trying to understand. The words were pure gibberish most of the time, incoherent, almost feverish.

Sam really needed to go to the bathroom but didn't dare leave his brother's side until he'd at least settled down a little, fearing that he might hurt himself when waking up and finding himself tied to the bed.

That sure wouldn't sit well with him as it was, but Dean waking up handcuffed, confused _and _alone would definitely not help Sam's case along any.

When finally, after what seemed and felt like an eternity Dean finally fell into a fitful sleep Sam felt like toppling over, he was so spent and riled up, the sudden loss of tension almost making him loose his equilibrium.

Dean's wrist already was chafed and raw and Sam cursed himself for not having thought about this earlier, for not wrapping either the cuffs or Dean's wrist with something soft to alleviate the pressure at least a bit. Well, he had been kind of preoccupied at the time, but still…

He dug through his duffel, came up with a t-shirt he thought he was able to spare, cutting some strips off to gently wrap them around the sharp material of the cuffs. He had trouble contriving it between the metal and Dean's already swollen wrist, but he didn't dare take them off to do it more thoroughly, afraid that Dean would wake at just this second and this time find a way to finish whatever he'd set out to do.

Sam pushed one of the extra pillows from the closet underneath Dean's hand, supporting it a bit so it didn't hang in the shackle quite as heavily. He then circled the bed to tend to Dean's right wrist, the already banged up one, gently yet quickly unwinding the gauze to lay free purplish swollen knuckles, some split skin and abrasions marking the spot where Dean had probably hit the tiled bathroom floor, punishing himself effectively.

"Stupid ass…can't do anything the easy way, right?" Sam muttered dejectedly as he carefully bent Dean's fingers, tracing the delicate bones of his hand through the puffy flesh, finding a couple of bones that seemed to be cracked at the least. He'd have a hell of a hard time moving the limb, let alone the digits for some time to come. How he'd managed to hold on to his knife the way he had remained a mystery to Sam, but he guessed that it had something to do with adrenaline and sheer determination. Dean would manage to pull that off. He'd once walked five miles through the woods with a broken ankle, something like this could only elicit a weak grin from his brother. Too stubborn to admit defeat and while Sam had always feared that it would, sometime, catch up with him, it wasn't one of the worst trades that Dean came with.

Sam applied some antibiotic ointment liberally over the scrapes and the newly torn stitches, deciding that redoing them would probably not make much sense right now before wrapping the limb more tightly than before. Yet he still left the bandage slack enough to not make the swelling worse before settling the hand by Dean's side again, watching his brother roll his head sloppily on the pillow, lips slightly parted, forehead creased in a constant frown.

There had to be a way to keep him down, there just had to be…

But in the end, Sam resigned himself to the fact that there was nothing he could do except to simply knock him out or drug him up. Neither was an option right now…he might come to reconsider that decision later on, but right now he'd just suck it up and try to live with it.

Bobby was on his way…Bobby would save the day. He'd done it before, he'd do it now. Next to his big brother, the seasoned hunter was the one person that Sam trusted with his life.

And Bobby loved Dean like he was his own son…he wouldn't let this get the better of his brother. For either of them. Never.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

One thing was for sure, he didn't really feel all that great.

His head was throbbing and grinding, goddamnit. This had to be the worst headache of his whole life.

He groaned, deep and heartfelt, not caring if anyone could hear. He didn't care much about anything anymore…nothing but this _urge_, this bone-deep _need_ to lash out, to fight… That and the pure need to protect Sammy…from vampires and demons, Wendigos and…himself, of all people.

He tried to roll onto his side, never having been too comfortable lying on his back, trying to cradle his head in his hands and maybe gouge out his own eyeballs while he was at it, stopping them from throbbing and expanding inside his skull any longer.

Rolling over worked, kind of, towards his left anyway, even though his shoulder hurt but the pain didn't really register amid all the other discomforts he felt right now. Bringing his right hand to his forehead worked too, but his left stayed where it was, extended above his head and a renewed tug revealed that indeed he couldn't move it, couldn't pull away and then he realized that he must have been tied to something, that someone had freaking tied him up.

He tore at the restraint, rolling his body over and almost passing out with pain when he almost wrenched his own shoulder out in the process.

"What the…"

He pushed himself up and away, uncaring that it wouldn't do him any good, knowing that it would not work but doing it nonetheless, rolling towards his right side now and trying to use his whole body weight to pull at the restraints, trying to wrench the thing _off. _His his bodyhishiiiligluzfkluzf

body cleared the mattress and he found his footing, bent over a little, arm at an awkward angle across the bed where it was still held tight, his wrist popping when joints and sinews strained to remain in their awkward position.

"What…nuhhh…"

He pulled, oblivious to the way the metal tore at his skin, not really feeling anything but the imminent panic and fury at not being able to move, to get away, to roll up and die…

Dean hadn't counted on the sudden surge of nausea and vertigo of being semi-upright, though and he went down again, cracking his knees first on the bed frame, then the floor. He had to rest his forehead on the mattress for a second, relishing the feel of soft and warm on his face while at the same time feeling constricted, smothered by it.

His free hand dug into the sheets, or at least tried to but his fingers were numb, barely moving as he tried to reach forward, to figure out what was holding him while still not being able to open his eyes, _needing_ to see what made his escape impossible.

He had to half-crawl onto the bed again in order to reach his left wrist, bent awkwardly, elbow and shoulder strained to the point he thought they would just pop out of their sockets at any second now as his fingers found the shackles that were holding him. He felt the rough and cold metal of the cuffs, wrapped with something a little softer and warmer in places and he tore at the fabric, trying to get underneath.

What…how…? He'd been cuffed to the bed? Now…had this been not so damn uncomfortable… His memories clearly telling him that this was not some kind of kinky and highly x-rated dream or game but the biggest, most vicious betrayal he'd ever, _ever _encountered.

His own brother…his own _brother_, who he'd protected and pampered, who's diapers he'd changed, who he'd potty trained and taught everything the kid needed to know about girls and other important things in life. He'd given him everything he ever had and now this?

"Dean…"

A sound from somewhere in front of him and the mere tone of Sam's voice tore through Dean like a hurricane. At first it was relief, pure and unvarnished, a reaction so ingrained into his very core there was no stopping it, sired by years and years of mind- numbing habit and training and need and love… He slumped forward a bit, his muscles screaming and he wanted, so badly to lean forward into the welcoming strong arms he knew would be there should he fall, would always be there for him, no matter what.

"Dean…easy…just take it easy. Let me help you…"

The voice suddenly nearer, right in front of him, then there were hands on his shoulders, trying to steady him, no doubt, lending strength as much as doing the simple act of keeping him more or less upright. But the first surge of immense relief that brought Dean to the verge of actually sobbing at the sensation was replaced with something so far from relief or ease, it was almost crushing in its intensity.

He wanted those hands off…_offoffoffoffoffoff_, wanted Sam gone, as far away as possible, because even though he knew that it was wrong and that he stood no chance without his brother here to help him, to keep him safe he just wanted him to be _gone_. It was insane, the twirl of thoughts making him even dizzier than he already was and he knew at that moment that it was the sickest thing he'd ever experienced.

The knowledge that what he was doing and thinking was wrong, that there was no way his brother was out to get him, to hurt him like he _felt _Sam was and still there was nothing he could do to push past those feelings of anger and hurt and betrayal to surface and _fight_ this.

They'd talked about it…a couple of times, under much fidgeting and awkward growls and shifting and not looking at each other…had talked about the time when Sam had been possessed. Sam telling him that he didn't remember most of what he'd done during that time and that it was the hardest thing not knowing, not being able to remember. If there had been others than Steven Wendell…others than Jo…or even Dean.

Dean had thought Sam was right then…had thought that it was the worst torture for sure, that there was nothing that came even remotely close.

Now he thought that he might have been wrong – both of them had been.

Because worse than not knowing…any day of the week, was _knowing_. Knowing exactly what he'd done and said and felt…even though he still knew that he was wrong. The worst thing was knowing all this but not being strong enough to fight it.

God, he wished he could be stronger…stronger than this, stronger than all of it.

Already he could feel his stamina waning, could feel the energy it took to be able to keep himself from lashing out and being angry sapping away. It took too much out of him, too much to fight this off… With Sam out of the picture maybe he could just let go…

The only reason he was still holding on was his little brother, he _knew _that. But he really was so tired of fighting…and god, did it hurt.

"Dean…come on…"

Those hands again, pressing him back, fingers digging into his flesh, hurting him, grating, scraping away at the last vestiges of rationality.

"Sam…" His voice sounded rough and painful even to his own ears.

"Sam…get away…let go of me and get…the hell away from me."

The sentence a mixture of threatening and pleading and he could feel Sam stiffen, apparently trying to figure out how to read it as well, then holding on even more tightly.

"Lie back down…come on, you need to relax. You're hurting yourself, Dean. Please…"

Dean could almost _see _the puppy dog eyes on him, even though he hadn't yet opened his own eyes but for some reason that only made things worse now.

"Get off of me…let go you freak… Untie me and let me go or I swear to god…"

He flexed all his muscles, sparring into his brother, groaning as his shoulder couldn't follow the movement and ground loudly in its socket, almost popping out.

"LET GO…"

Dean again threw himself forward, toppling Sam backwards, rolling to the floor and this time he felt and heard his shoulder giving up its position with a vicious pop that made his head spin as he heard himself scream out in pain. White hot tendrils of agony shot up into his brain, down into the tips of his fingers. His wrist was still caught in the metal cuff that almost cut off the circulation the way the limb was now twisted in it, making the digits curl towards his palm automatically as all the nerve ending spasmed in his arm.

His brother's words lost in a haze of agony and confusion and _need_…

He needed to end this, once and for all.

_I c__an't hurt Sam… _Dean repeated the mantra to himself, mumbling it over and over and over again as he felt Sam take hold of him from behind all of a sudden, strong arms snaking across his chest. Sam pulled him back and up again and even though Dean could feel his body fighting still he forced himself with all his heart to not kick and bite his way out of there like he really wanted to.

God it hurt. Everywhere. No exception.

Dean forced his muscles to relax as much as possible, forced himself not to smash his head back into his little brother's face, break his nose like every instinct told him to, to fight him off. Sam dragged him back onto the bed, trying but not succeeding entirely to not twist his arm any further. Dean again cried out, felt the arm that had held him around the chest sneak up towards his throat, settling there and then, with absolute and incorruptible clarity Dean knew what Sam was going to do.

Dean had taught him this exact move, after all, had freaking taught him to do this, never assuming that Sam would ever use it on _him_. His own brother.

"Nuhhh…"

He tore his eyes open then, tears of panic and pain stinging in them, burning ferociously as he blinked rapidly against the sudden intrusion of light on his tortured eyeballs. The room tilted, blurring around the edges and he tried to bring his good arm up to fight Sam off - only that even his good arm wasn't all that good really and his fingers didn't manage to hold on to his brother's arm, let alone pull it off.

He bucked his upper body up again, unable to control the motion let alone quench it, trying in vain to find some grip with his feet, twisting and writhing but already Sam had found good enough leverage, holding Dean's back against his own chest steadily. One strong arm snaked around his mid-section so he couldn't twist away, increasing the pressure with his right arm on his throat, subtly but continuously cutting off his air-supply. Sam was murmuring a never-ending cascade of words into his ear, words that never hit bottom.

"Easy Dean. I'm so sorry…so sorry…so sorry…just stop fighting…stop fighting…please…"

Over and over and over again until Dean could feel his body slipping, falling, the black around the edges of his vision creeping closer together, collaborating with the dark spots dancing before his eyes, tunnelling his sight to a mere pinpoint on the far wall.

The last thing he saw was the ugly landscape that hung there, brown and tattered like everything else in this ridiculous room, the hideous sight accompanying him into the darkness.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

_AN:_

_Alright, so I'll make this real quick and go hide now. Please, no stone-throwing…I know it's kinda…I don't know. But I promise I'll make it better… Please don't give up on me just yet and wait me out, alright?_

_Other than that, as always, thanks for bearing with me and to all those who squeezed in the time to review – you're awesome, thank you!_

_If you wanna read on, the next chapter will be up next week as usual!_


	11. Chapter 11

_To all you wonderful people still reading, here is the next chapter:_

From this dark rom

**Chapter 11**

Bobby didn't know what he'd expected.

He'd known it would be bad. With what little Sam had told him, however much he hadn't, Bobby had still been able to figure that much out by himself.

For Sam to sound as depleted and broken as he had, it had to be worse than bad. Even though, yeah, Sam usually tended to worry too much, which was just the opposite of Dean, who downplayed situations that were clearly shot to hell – but Bobby still knew that this was going to a whole different level even on Sam's scale. And the kid sure had had enough experience in worrying about his thick-headed older brother throughout their lives to panic easily anymore.

So, from what Bobby had learned from Sam and what he'd been able to find out through his own research had gotten him plenty worried as it was. To have the whole situation shoved right in his face was a completely different pair of shoes, though.

Bobby hadn't quite been prepared for the sight when Sam finally opened the dingy motel room door for him, not bothering to ask for a password or even a name as usually was their habit. He simply swung the door open, careful to block the view inside with his tall, lanky body before basically rushing Bobby, drawing him into an embrace before the older hunter even had time to react. Sam looked as if he'd surprised himself with the action, because no sooner than he'd released Bobby did he take a step back, his face slightly flushed.

Bobby had to smile a little.

Dean would have loved to see that – Sam would have never lived it down.

"Nice to see you too, Sam…" Bobby mused quietly.

Sam just stood there, looking forlorn and more than a little lost and Bobby decided to have pity on him.

"So, you gonna ask me in or you wanna do this out here, in the parking lot?"

That again got the kid flushing and he quickly retreated back into the room, nervously closing the door behind their backs.

It took Bobby a couple of seconds to find Dean. The older brother usually the one ever present, the one to draw all eyes to him with his looks, his charms, the way he acted and carried himself. Sam, despite his size and his equally catching looks was the one usually staying in the background, observing, evaluating quietly the way he'd been taught to for years and years by both his father and his brother, the two people that had protected him and looked out for him for as long as he could think.

That was probably the reason why Dean was the way he was, acted the way he acted, whenever entering a room or bar or whatever else, drawing the attention to himself in order to keep it away from his younger brother. John had certainly trained him well…both of them. It was just a pity that they'd never learned to shed their awarded skins to try something new every once in a while.

Dean was on one of the beds, sprawled on his back with both arms shackled to the sturdy bed frame above his head. His eyes were closed yet he didn't seem to be asleep but was writhing and moving incessantly, tugging at his restraints, hissing in pain and mumbling, muttering beneath quick and heaving breaths. His head was pressed to the side, eyes squeezed shut tightly as if trying to get away from an invisible attacker.

Dean looked a mess. Even from Bobby's standpoint at the door he could see the lines of pain edged deep into the skin around his eyes, his long lashes laying damp against flushed cheeks, the usually short and spiky hair practically plastered to his head, sticking to his forehead and temples.

He seemed to be sweating and shivering at the same time.

"What the hell…"

This looked so much like the scene from _The Exorcist_ Bobby almost laughed out loud at the irony. Almost.

Sam circled him nervously, looking as if he might keel over with exhaustion any minute, drawing closer to the bed his brother lay on yet not approaching all the way, keeping a little distance, practically hiding behind Bobby. His face a mask of worry and sorrow and agony beyond anything Bobby had seen in a long time.

Not even back then, right after their dad had died when the boys had come to regroup at his house and Sam had been beside himself with pain over their loss, had been out of his mind with worry over his brother's state of mind, had he carried his emotions out in the open as much as right now.

"I had to tie him up…he tried to…he jumped me, tried to get away. He's been in and out. I don't think he's actually _out_, but he's…delirious, almost… not himself. He has moments of lucidity, but they are, like, gone so fast now it's hard to even catch them anymore. The rest of the time he just struggles and groans and…curses… He wrenched out his shoulder trying to get away…I had to pop it back in. I don't know, might be out again though…"

Bobby pried his eyes away from the older brother, taking in Sam's appearance again, frowning when he saw the angry red line across his neck, the edges clean yet slightly raised and swollen, the deep red shiner, the bruise on his temple. How he could have missed those before Bobby had no idea.

"What happened…did he do this?"

His voice had been a little sharper then he'd intended, but it was hard not to get all protective over either of those boys, hard to not snap when he saw one of them hurt.

Sam heard the reprimand, too and quickly shook his head.

"No, Bobby…he…I mean yeah, he jumped me, but he wasn't himself. You said it yourself, he can't control it anymore… He wanted to leave, you know, wanted to get away so he couldn't hurt me and I held him back and then…then he snapped… He wanted to stop himself, Bobby. I could see him fight it, hell, he's still is doing it, but I don't think…I mean even Dean can't go on forever…right?"

So the kid was still protecting his brother, through all that had happened…both of them were. Dean fighting the only way he knew, linking his reason to the sole purpose of protecting his little brother, Sam doing everything, even though it had to hurt like hell, to forgive Dean for whatever had been said and done.

Those boys would be willing to forgive each other everything…getting possessed and shooting each other, beating and cutting each other up… They'd still be able to forgive the other within the beat of a second, their devotion ran that deep. But Bobby knew that when it came to forgiving themselves it became a whole lot more complicated.

He'd seen it a couple of months back, when they'd both come to his house and together Bobby and Dean had freed Sam of Meg. Bobby was sure he was going to see it again, once this was over. At least that what he hoped, more than anything. And while he wondered why it was that those boys always managed to get themselves into the deepest shit imaginable and how subsequently they always got him involved in it, it still felt strangely good to know that they would turn to him when things got bad, when they needed help, an ally, a friend.

Even though that knowledge did not make this right now any easier.

First off, he had to break it to Sam, and he had to do it carefully. As harmless and devoted to them both as Sam might seem at the moment, Bobby had no doubt that the younger Winchester would not hesitate one second as to who's side to take should he be forced to choose. And Bobby really couldn't blame him.

So, back to business.

Bobby nodded towards Sam's neck.

"Did you clean that properly…disinfect it? You don't wanna get it infected."

Sam glared at him for a second, a face that would have made Dean gleam with pride, no doubt, put on his most determined face.

"It's fine…_I'm _fine. I cleaned it…its not very deep. I've got it covered."

Of course he had. Sam was everything if not sufficient. But he hardly lacked behind Dean in determination when it came to the _keep you brother safe before all else rule_. It was only Dean who still liked to think that he held the prerogative on that one. Bobby would have to make sure the stubborn jerk knew how wrong he was about it once this was all over.

Bobby stepped closer to the bed then, realized that Sam moved out of his way, still not approaching Dean any more than necessary. His face carefully crafted, but Sam was so far from being good at hiding his emotions, it was almost pitiable. The guilt and heartache seeping right out of every available pore of his body.

But even while staying away, Sam kept track of ever single one of Bobby's movements, not even trying to hide it either.

Bobby placed his bag on Sam's empty bed, stood over Dean's body for a second, just looking at him. The way he was tied up made the older hunter frown and cringe, knowing that that wouldn't sit too well with the fierce hunter that had always had trouble with being reigned in to begin with. Being tied up, kept immobile and restrained by his own brother sure had to leave him raw and bleeding in more ways than one.

"Hey kiddo…" Bobby whispered, carefully, almost hesitantly extending his hand and letting it hover over Dean's temple for an instant before finally touching. Hesitating before the ultimate intimate gesture of affection that he was sure Dean would hate, or at least pretend to hate if he'd be aware enough, flinching at the feverishly hot skin his fingers encountered.

"Look at what you've gotten yourself into this time…"

Dean twitched, groaned, twisted his head and actually leaned into the touch, almost as if relishing it, craving it. It took Bobby by surprise more than anything the young hunter could have said or done otherwise, the gesture so unlike _Dean_, it was hard to fathom.

He could hear Sam take in a sharp breath behind him, could feel the young man take a hesitant step closer, move up next to him.

As if Dean could feel his brother's presence - and knowing Dean he probably did - he started fidgeting, stirring, reacting to his brother's closeness. Only, he didn't react quite the way Bobby would have expected him to.

Usually, when hurt or sick, Dean would not let anybody get close to him except Sam. Bobby vividly remembered a time, Dean must have been about 13 or 14, John bringing the kid to his house with a fever that had gone up through the roof. The claws of a werewolf had ripped his thigh open a couple of days before, the wound angrily infected by the time they'd made it to Bobby's.

John had been all but helpless, having done everything possible for his oldest, yet the fever was rising and the kid wouldn't let his dad touch him, would scream bloody murder whenever John even got close to him, let alone make contact. Bobby hadn't fared any better and together they pretty much had to wrestle the teenager down and force the medicine down his throat, had to forcefully hold on to him while administering to his wounds. When checking on him sometime during the night Bobby had been more than a little surprised to find Sam lying in the same bed as his brother, snuggled up to him, one hand on his wrist, holding on to him, Dean being perfectly still, finally sleeping peacefully.

There had been countless situations like this, Bobby knew from experience and relation. That was why he was all the more disturbed by Sam's now obvious reluctance to touch his brother, by Dean's immediate reaction to Sam's close proximity.

Dean started to struggle more violently, throwing himself against the cuffs that held him on the bed. He turned his head away from the two men towering over him and strained his neck to the point where Bobby thought his veins were going to pop underneath his flushed skin.

His eyes squeezed impossibly tighter, his lips in a line so thin they seemed to be nonexistent. Low moans managed to make their way out from somewhere deep inside his chest and he arched his upper body sideways, his feet shuffling to grab a hold on the tangled sheets, trying to scuffle away from them, away from…Sam.

"Nhhh…no…" he gasped out, tugging at the cuffs in earnest now, fingers of his left hand clenched so tight his nails sliced into his palm.

"Hey…easy…take it easy…"

Bobby reached out again, trying to steady his friend, trying to give him reassurance and stability, but Dean seemed to be oblivious.

"No…NO. Get away from me…get _him_ away from me or…or…"

His eyes snapped open, head whipping towards Bobby and Sam with such force, the older hunter instantly took a step backwards, feeling himself bumping into Sam, who still stood behind him. Bobby thought he'd never forget the look of pure, unabashed hatred in Dean's eyes at that moment. A look usually reserved for all the baddies the young man hunted and detested more than anything. A look not meant for either one of _them_.

"Untie me you fuck…and let me go…LET ME GO. I'm gonna kill you…I swear to god…"

The words directed not at Bobby but to the person standing behind him…the words directed straight at Sam. Bobby was too dumbstruck to say anything. He felt Sam scuffle away from him, felt him slip out from between the beds and make his way to somewhere across the room. Dean's eyes followed him like a predator stalking its prey, shooting arrows of pure, searing fire, his body coiled and ready to strike the moment an opportunity would present itself.

"Let. Me. Go!"

A feral growl, a voice Bobby had never heard before, so full of menace and hatred…

Dean twisted himself like a snake, sweat glistening on his face and strained neck, pulling, tugging, now suddenly trying not to get away from Sam but apparently wanting to follow him, to get _to_ him. The metal cuffs clinked against the bed frame, screeched and rattled the whole bed, but didn't budge. It wasn't hard to see the angry red bruises, deep cuts and abrasions already adorning Dean's wrists and forearms, trails of blood making their way down the sweat stained skin, staining the sheets a deep red in places.

Bobby knew that he had to get Sam out of the room, out of the situation, for his own good as much as for his brother's. Just for a little while. Sam's presence only making matters worse, however wrong and unbelievable that was.

Bobby kept his eyes on Dean, having a hard time prying them away he was so riveted in shock, even though he'd known, in theory, what to expect. Still, seeing Dean like this…the whole goddamn theory kind of sounded like a sweet little good-night story in comparison.

Still his voice was low and composed when he spoke.

"Sam…why don't you…go get us something to eat? I didn't have anything all day. The stuff they serve on the plane - it's inedible. I could really go for a sandwich now…and a nice strong coffee."

This was going to be a long day.

Sam shook his head, looking distraught and close to tears yet determined, unwilling to abandon his brother, unwilling to leave his side even though it was clear as day that it wasn't helping matters any.

"No…no. I gotta stay with him. He needs me."

A little stubborn, maybe? Sounding defensive and dead set, yet his eyes once again betrayed his insecurity all too clearly.

"I think what you both need now is a little space. Sam, please, just go get us something to bite…I'll take care of him while you're gone, alright? When was the last time you had something to eat?"

Sam didn't have an answer to that, just like Bobby had expected.

"I'm not even gonna ask you when you last slept…we can't change that now, but we can keep you from falling over from hunger…me too, for that matter. I saw a restaurant down the road. You won't be gone for more than thirty minutes…"

Bobby tried to lock eyes with the young man, tried to make him understand. He had to see, had to know that right now, there was nothing he could do to make this better. He had done the research, knew that the demon made people turn against the ones they loved the most. In his case, it would be Sam…always Sam that Dean cared about more than anything. As hard as it might seem - him being here only made things worse for Dean. The closer his brother was to him, the closer he was without Dean being able to lash out the way that _Ragazara-bitch_ wanted him to, the more he was gonna hurt himself, hurt Sam too…

Until they'd prepared everything, it would be better for Sam to keep a little distance, let Dean save whatever strength he could…the kid was gonna need it later on. They all would.

Bobby knew that Sam was all too aware of that fact, too, the way he'd kept himself in the background, had kept his distance to the bed even though it had been more than apparent that all he wanted to do was rush to his brother's side, help him through this… He knew it, but Sam wouldn't be a true Winchester if he wouldn't try to fight reason a bit, even when he knew better.

He could see the fight in Sam's eyes, in his face as he chewed his bottom lip, his eyes flickering between Dean and Bobby, almost like the eyes of a crack addict, never standing still, jumping and flicking before finally resignation dulled them, made the light of fight die down in an instant.

"Alright…alright I'll go. I'll go if you stay…"

As if he was going anywhere.

"Sure thing…I'll stay right here, start preparing everything. Make that two sandwiches for me…better yet, get a whole assortment, safe some for later. And, like, a gallon of coffee."

Sam smirked, already grabbing his jacket and the keys to the Impala.

"God…you sound just like him. Anything else you need…for later?"

"No, I got that covered. Took most of the stuff with me and whatever I couldn't get on the plane I picked up on the way here. That cab-driver sure looked at me funny when I had him stop in two different pharmacies and one of those alternative herb-shops till I had all the things I needed."

"Ok, alright…" Sam smiled somewhat distractedly, barely able to but finally managing to tear his eyes away from his brother's restless form before disappearing out the door, leaving Bobby and Dean alone at last.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Dean's eyes followed Sam until he was out of the room, lingering on the closed door, his body still strained against the bonds, muscles shivering with the effort it had to take to keep himself in this no doubt uncomfortable position.

Only when the Impala's rumbling engine had pulled out of earshot did he finally squeeze his eyes shut, his head hitting the pillow with a thump that actually made Bobby jump. His fingers were still clenched into fists, muscles still locked, but the lines on his crunched up face once more suggested pain and misery where seconds ago pure hatred had been dominant above everything else.

Bobby felt as out of place as he hardly ever had, felt wrong to be here, to see this, felt wrong to sit here instead of Sam, whose rightful place he'd taken. This whole fucking situation just so downright wrong, it screamed to the heavens…this just shouldn't be.

He loved Dean like he would his own son, hell, loved both those boys despite all the shit they managed to pull him into on a regular basis. He could barely stand seeing either one, let alone both in such misery. He couldn't stand seeing Dean so hostile towards his own brother.

The boy started shaking again, harder this time, as if coming undone now that Sam was gone, out of desperation, most likely. Bobby just wasn't sure if Dean was glad to have his brother gone or if he wanted him back so he could fight it out with him. From the look he'd shot Sam merely a minute ago, it was more likely to be the latter yet somehow Bobby couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it than that.

Bobby took one of the blankets that lay crumbled on Sam's bed, draped it over Dean and found himself staring once again into those intense green eyes, trained on him now, wide open and slightly glassy but _Dean_…almost the Dean he knew.

Bobby swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth, forced himself to keep his voice as calm and steady and unaffected as he could manage.

"Hey…thought you might be cold."

"Hot…off …" Dean rasped out even as a violent shiver raked through him, made the cuffs rattle against the bed frame.

"Alright…whatever you say."

Bobby removed the blanket again, let it rest on the foot of the bed though, within easy reach, dead set on putting it back once Dean was asleep again. No use in letting him catch pneumonia to top it all off…the way he was sweating and freezing at the same it did look as if he was on the best way to just that.

It was weird, there were about a million things Bobby wanted to say, had collected in his head for just this moment alone with Dean but now that he had the chance, he couldn't think of simply one.

It always had been easy to talk to Dean, a whole lot easier than talking to John or even Sam most times. John, because he simply had been a hard person to be with on the best of days, Sam because he used to live in his own little world most of the time, buried in some book or other. Not that Bobby couldn't relate to that but still…growing up the kid had just been too dead set on distancing himself from anything that had to do with hunting, he'd been hard to get a hand on at times.

Dean had always been easy going, interested in most everything Bobby had to show or teach him, listening to his hunting stories like other kids listened to good night stories, soaking up pretty much every single lesson on auto-shop that Bobby had managed to squeeze in the boy's training schedule. They'd always had a special relationship, something that connected them from the very first time Bobby had met the kid, then barely more than a squirt himself, Sam even still in his diapers.

Bobby would not let anything or anyone take that away from him again.

He'd get Dean back, Sam right along with him and that would be that. Nobody and nothing had the right to mess with his family like that.

"Bobby…"

Dean's rough voice ripped the hunter out of his thoughts and he focused back on his friend, green eyes still intently focused on him, lips slightly parted as if having trouble breathing. He looked more coherent now…more himself, if only a little bit. Unfortunately he also looked as if it was hard work maintaining that condition, as if it was physically and emotionally draining him by the second.

"Bobby…need your help." The words were clipped and almost hissed out and Bobby had to work hard on keeping his face neutral.

"'kay…alright. That's what I'm here for, Dean. I'm here to help."

Dean sagged a little at the sound of Bobby's voice, it seemed, throat working soundlessly as he apparently swallowed hard, ground his teeth against an unseen attack of either pain or panic. Neither option did much to appease Bobby.

"NO…" He almost spit the word out, chest heaving, struggling.

"No…you…promise me something. Bobby…need you to promise me…"

The desperation in his voice, mirrored by those intense green eyes sliced into Bobby's very core, the visible strain of every single one of his muscles made Bobby nod reflexively.

"Alright…I promise to help, Dean. Just tell me what and I'll do whatever I can." Bobby said, low and placating.

He saw the fight, praying to whoever was willing to listen that he'd be able to take some of it away from the younger man.

"Promise…to keep Sammy away, make sure he doesn't do something stupid. Don't let him… Keep him away so I can't hurt him, Bobby…please."

The words were pressed out between clenched teeth, quick and rushed, as if he was afraid that he didn't have enough time left if he put too much empathy in them, breaking at the last word, though, lids sliding closed as he once again fought whatever was torturing him.

Bobby couldn't tear his eyes away, even though he wanted nothing more than to get out of this room, the air suddenly too thick to breathe, everything to not witness this.

Damn the Winchesters. He really had been quite happy and content without their goddamn problems dragging him down along with them. He'd never wanted to care about anybody that deeply ever again…he'd sworn himself that a long time ago. Damn John, first and foremost, for bringing those boys into his life with all that blind devotion and friendship and sense of family that he'd so successfully been able to keep out of his focus for so long.

"Bobby…promise me. I don't think I have all that much time left…"

"Shut up, you moron, and quit talking like that. You have plenty of time left. I told you I'm here to help. When have I ever let you guys down, huh? If you'd just for once get your head out of your ass and freaking listen to me, you' d know that."

He might have gotten a little desperate, his voice maybe a tick too harsh, but Dean had always been the one who reacted much better to harsh words than gentle ones, never one for the soft talk. Bobby thought he could deal a lot better like this, right now.

Dean squirmed again, took in a sharp breath, hands clenching impossibly tighter, head arching back a little into the sweat soaked pillow.

"It's…I'm losing control again. I can feel it…"

Were those tears in the corner of his eyes there? Hell no…Dean would never…

"I know I'm not strong enough, Bobby. It's killing me… If I don't…turn against Sammy, it's gonna kill me. I can feel it. I know it but I can't stop it. It's too strong and I can't hurt Sam. You NEED to stop me from hurting Sam, Bobby. If I ever…if you let me hurt him I'm gonna take you down with me, I swear."

The words tore Bobby to the core, the apparent struggle rippling through Dean's body, washing over his face leaving him weaker and weaker by the second telling him that the kid wasn't lying, that he was fighting a losing battle. And god, did he fight. His eyes alone transporting more determination and resolution than Bobby would have thought possible after everything he knew had happened, though at the same time the light was flickering, not yet willing to go out but burning down fast. And Bobby could see the resignation too, the knowledge of what was going to happen.

"You gotta promise, Bobby…you're the only one I can trust on this."

A hitch in his breath, body twisting a little and Bobby instinctively reached out, trying to steady the boy that was writhing in pain underneath the palm of his hand, jumping at the touch, drawing away again.

"Promise me, Bobby…please. Take care of Sam…I don't wanna hurt him, but if I do…you gotta stop me. No matter what. Don't…whatever I say or do, whatever Sam says or does, you stop me. Promise…promise me that!"

He pulled against the bonds once more, this time to get closer to Bobby, to emphasize his words, cuffs slicing deeper into his flesh, sending a fresh trail of blood down his arms but he didn't even seem to notice.

What could Bobby do, really? Dean never asked for anything unless it was important, unless it involved hunting or his family…which, more often than not blended into each other all too seamlessly. He knew that it was more important to the kid to keep his brother safe than think about where that would leave him in the process. Had always been that way, would always stay that way. No matter how many times anyone tried to drill into that thick head of his' that it didn't always make sense to put everybody else first. Sometimes, you needed to look out for yourself, for a change.

Only now didn't seem to be the time to stress that little fact, Bobby realized. Now Dean needed to know that he had backup on this, needed it to be able to keep fighting. And who the hell was Bobby to not give him that however small reprieve? He had no right, even though he would never willingly do what Dean so obviously asked of him.

"Alright…Dean. Alright, I promise. I'll take care of the two of you…but you gotta promise me something too. You don't give up, alright? You keep fighting and we'll figure out a way to get you out of this. You do that for me and I promise I'll do everything in my power to keep that giant of a brother of yours in check, OK?"

For a second he thought that Dean hadn't heard, his eyes glazed over and trained onto some spot in the distance, and Bobby thought he'd slipped off again. But finally Dean slumped down, let his body go lax so suddenly the whole bed practically shook under the impact of heavy, exhausted muscle dropping down and he let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob. But Bobby chose to believe it was nothing but a really large exhale of air. Leave the kid a bit of dignity yet. That much he owed him.

"Alright, Dean? Need to hear it from you, kiddo. Just like you did from me…"

Dean's eyes didn't open again, his voice barely audible as he said the words Bobby wasn't all too sure he could trust right now.

"Yeah…yeah, Bobby. I promise."

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Tbc

_AN:_

_As always, thank you so much for all the wonderful and encouraging reviews for the last chapter. As I mentioned to some of you before – fight scenes are always hard to write, and they leave me fearing that my vocabulary won't hold up (not that I would do much better in german ;-)), but looking back I think now that I didn't do too bad, after all. _

_So, I hope you still like it and come back for more._

_Thank you all – you guys rock, honestly._

_Take care!_


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"What? No, Bobby, no way. You've got to be kidding me…there has to be another way. I'm not…we're not going to do it…"

Sam backed away a step, his arms defiantly crossed over his chest while pushing himself between Bobby and the door to their room, which was closed now as they'd stepped outside to have their last recap before getting started.

Bobby ran a tired hand through his beard, looked up at Sam through slightly bleary eyes.

It was late afternoon, still another hour or two of light left and thankfully the motel's parking lot was practically deserted. Nobody there to witness their little argument, or chat or whatever it was supposed to be. The only thing Sam knew was that he couldn't believe Bobby would say something like this, would even _consider_ this.

The afternoon had been hell, he really wasn't up for this right now.

"Listen Sam…"

"No…no Bobby. It's not an option. I can't believe… you said you could help. You never mentioned that we could kill Dean in the process."

Sam's eyes were spitting fire as he felt the anger and disappointment in his old friend swamp him. He'd thought Bobby would understand…he couldn't believe how easily Bobby was ready to just give up on his brother.

"I never said it would kill him, Sam. All I said is that it isn't gonna be easy… It's not gonna be _tie him up and say an exorcism till the black smoke comes out of his mouth _kind of exorcism. It's a little more complicated than that. We gotta get the symbols right, make sure we give him the right amount of the concoction, say the right words at the right time. We have to make sure we get it all done properly and in the right order, otherwise…"

"…otherwise it will kill him. But that ain't gonna happen, Bobby." Sam spat back, broadening his stance, ready to physically keep Bobby from getting back into that room again, from letting him get close to his brother.

Bobby sighed, his hands dropping to his thighs, wiping his palms as if he had something on them.

"What I said is, that it's going to be hell on him…that it's gonna take a lot of strength to pull through. This thing…you know it better than I do, Sam, it's tearing him apart as it is. It wants him to kill and since he can't…won't do it, it's pretty much wreaking havoc on him…you've seen him, Sam. He's getting worse by the minute. He's barely coherent anymore…"

Sam blinked rapidly, his eyes staying focused on Bobby even though he clearly wanted nothing more than to look away.

"I know that, Bobby, I've been in there. Hell, I've spent the last couple of days with him, watching him getting worse and worse. But I won't let you…I can't risk getting him killed. We just…find someone else, let Dean infect someone else and then, I don't know, tie him up until he is over that urge to kill. This Mark-guy we've been talking to was still alive a couple of days after, so it has to pass…eventually. We can try that exorcism of yours on the new victim then, get Dean out of the picture…"

Sam was getting desperate, it showed in his eyes and his words, but he didn't care anymore. He wasn't going to let Bobby do what he'd told him…he couldn't risk losing Dean.

"You are not serious, Sam, and you know it. I know you're desperate, but just stop for a minute to think about this. You wanna get an innocent person involved? Did you ever stop to think about what Dean would say to that? He'd have both our hides if he'd ever find out, Sam."

"I don't care…I don't give a damn. He'd be alive, that's all that matters."

Sam never ceased moving, took clipped steps in front of the door, like an over-eager watchdog, ready to pounce on anyone daring to get too close, let alone try to enter.

"Right…well, you know I want nothing more than for this to work, but we can't knowingly drag a civilian into this. Besides, I doubt that it would work at all. As you said, that thing intends for the host to kill the one person he cares about most in this world, which, in Dean's case would be you…and since he didn't achieve that, I don't think it would transfer without…without killing him instead…"

Sam stopped, stared at his friend, ready to punch him, he was so…yeah, what exactly? He was mad, sure, but why? Probably because he knew that Bobby was right. He, Sam Winchester, Mr. Conscience, the one always going on and on about how they couldn't drag innocent people into their line of work, who even hesitated killing a demon-possessed vessel even though he knew that the inhabited body would most likely not survive even a simple exorcism because the shell was too damaged already… He'd just pretty much proposed to not only stand by and watch something _wrong_ happening, he'd been willing to even encourage it.

Sam broke then, body loosing all it's tension and he sagged against the wall, still on his feet. Shame and humiliation over what he'd just been thinking, of what he'd been about to do was washing over him in a wave so big, he felt like physically choking on it.

Bobby was still there, still in front of him, eyes on him but they held none of the accusation Sam had thought he'd find there, that he _deserved_ to find there. Instead, Bobby seemed to understand, nodding slightly as if to tell Sam that he knew where it was coming from, that the worry for his brother had driven him to say and consider things he'd never even come close to preconceive under normal circumstances.

They were quiet for a while, Sam breathing away the apprehension and shame, Bobby clearly thinking hard, trying to figure out how to deal with the situation at hand.

Sam felt all but helpless, his mind a huge blank, reeling, not able to come up with the appropriate answers anymore. He was used to being in control of research, used to figuring stuff out for them to act accordingly. This right now just got to be too much, all of a sudden. He was mad as hell at Bobby, knowing that it was unfounded and highly unfair to top it off, but the worry for his brother drove him right into the ground, right here and now. It tore him down right along with Dean who lay in that room behind his back, tied up like some scum back meat suit for a demon, fighting, fighting…_fighting_… For him.

Bobby took a careful step towards him and Sam let him, let Bobby get close, let him put a comforting hand on his shoulder. He wanted this, needed this more than anything…he was not the one adjusted to handling something like this on his own, he'd always had someone else by his side…all his life.

There had been Dean and dad…mostly Dean though, until Sam had taken off for Stanford. He'd hated the loneliness, there, though he'd never admit it to anyone, not till this day, but he'd hated, even feared it at times. He'd felt helpless and exposed and so freaking lonely, he'd thought about just getting the hell out of Dodge and crawl back to his father and brother like the worthless beaten dog he'd felt like then. Only his goddamn pride had prevented him from doing it, in the end. Always his pride being the thing standing between him and what might have been good for him all along.

It had been Jess, in the end, who had held him, had given him back what he'd missed so much it had physically hurt, at times. She'd given him back a family, the feeling of being loved and cared for.

It felt strange to let someone else comfort him now, even though it was Bobby…the one person besides Dean he could truly trust anymore.

Sam had gotten used to Dean's way of support, his quiet acceptance as well as his infallible timing at saying the right thing at the right time. Even if it seemed a bit inappropriate more often than not, it mostly turned out to be just what he needed to hear in the end.

True, there were times when Sam wanted to simply clock Dean one, make him shut up and leave him alone for just a little while, but something like that was just normal, right? The way they spent almost every single minute of every day of the week with each other, lived practically on top of each other day in day out, worked together, spent their spare time together even. Some minor frictions were pretty much pre-programmed if you lived like that for any long period of time, let alone years…pretty much all their lives. Hell, most people couldn't even spend a mere couple of hours with their family members without getting into some kind of altercation, so Sam thought they actually weren't doing all that bad, considering.

"Sam, come on…don't you bail out on me too. I can't really handle the two of you guys all by myself…"

Bobby's voice was strange, fading in as if…well, as if it had been faded out before, which was unreasonable since he'd been here with him all the time, right…?

Sam blinked his eyes sluggishly, dumbstruck when he found himself sitting on the floor, his back against the wall next to the door to their room, head tilted back to rest against the rough and peeling plaster as a warm hand put gentle but reassuring pressure on his neck.

He gasped, sucked in a breath and took in his surroundings through bleary eyes. Just a minute ago he'd been standing right there, a couple of feet to his left, guarding the door…right? What the hell happened?

"Hey, kiddo…you with me again?"

Sam zoned in on Bobby's face, just a couple of inches away from his own, brows furrowed in both concern and anticipation alike. The hand belonged to the seasoned hunter, Sam now realized, the voice, too.

"Hey…" Cough "Hey Bobby. What happened?"

"Well, you kinda blanked out on me there. Started swaying on your feet and I helped you sit down so you didn't keel over and hit that sensitive head of yours…"

"Shit…how long was I out?"

Sam started pushing himself to his feet, accepting Bobby's help, still steadying him, eyeing him suspiciously.

"You weren't out, really, just in a alternate universe for a second or two… You look like shit, Sam. Sure you can do this?"

"Yeah...sure…sure. God, I'm just… If I'm feeling like this, can you imagine…"

"What Dean's going through? No, I can't. Not sure I want to, either. All the more reason for us to be on top of our game so we can help him get through this, Sam."

"Yeah, right. But we don't actually have time to spare for me to take a little nap right now… I'll be alright, Bobby, I have to be."

Bobby nodded, a little doubtful still, but he probably knew as well as Sam that they didn't have the comfort and leisure to put this off any longer. As if on cue, a loud banging noise from inside the room made both hunters jump.

"Think he's awake again." Bobby mumbled, finally stepping back, moving out of Sam's personal space.

"Yeah…" Sam ran a hand through his shaggy hair, pinched the bridge of his nose, scratched at the slight stubble that had started to grow on his cheeks.

"I can't believe how fast he' going down…" Sam mumbled, voice barely audible.

"Well… the leech, it feeds off peoples love and devotion, turns it into anger. The two most diverse emotions known to men, right? The stronger the host loves, the stronger he can hate, which makes the leech grow stronger faster than normal. Seeing how Dean…well…you know that he's got this almost unhealthy attitude towards you…and don't gimme that look, you know it's true and yeah, it's wrong and whatever, but we won't change that now. Not ever, so let's just not discuss this any further, alright?"

Sam bit back the indignant comment he'd been about to make. He knew Bobby was right, still it didn't make this any easier to hear it from someone else.

"So, what I was trying to say is, the more fiercely a person loves, the faster he's falling victim to this thing, however contradictory that sounds. So, the more Dean's trying to fight hurting you, the faster he falls…kinda. And he's fighting hard…you saw it. The fact that he's even still coherent at all bears witness to that…he still wants to protect you, Sam…before anything else."

Wow, that stung. No matter how many times he heard it, no matter that he'd known it all along, it still hurt like hell to think that Dean would practically destroy himself protecting his little brother. Sam felt his head snap back a bit at Bobby's words, knowing that they weren't meant to hurt or reprimand, that they were meant as a simple, bland statement of the facts only. It still didn't make it any easier to come to terms with.

"Ok, so, the way to stop this is to make him hate my guts, right? Think I can handle that. You wanna give me a hand smashing the Impala? If that doesn't help, I don't know what else will…"

Sam tugged his lips into a tired smile, saw Bobby mirror it back to him.

"Yeah, that should certainly do the trick." Bobby muttered softly, his eyes never leaving Sam's.

"You know I would never do anything to hurt either of you boys willingly, right Sam? I'd never take unnecessary risks concerning either one of you boy's health. If there was another way, I wouldn't even so much as think about this twice, Sam…"

"I know that…" Sam mumbled, feeling his mind reeling and blanking out at the same time. If he'd just be able to think of this as just another exorcism, one of about a thousand he'd witnessed or even performed himself… But this was Dean they were talking about here, his big brother, the only family he had left.

There was no sense in delaying this any further.

The longer they'd wait, the harder it would get.

The sooner they were done, the sooner he could get Dean and Bobby and get the hell away from here, leave it all behind and just go on. He was starting to sound a bit like Dean here…not thinking any further than the next step, but he actually got the appeal of it now. There was no sense in spinning this further and further in his head, no use thinking of the _what might be's_ if the next imminent step wasn't even cleared yet.

He was just going to channel his big brother and take this one step at the time from here on. They'd reach their destination eventually, there just was no way knowing the road they needed to take to get there just yet.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

There was a small flicker of…recognition…hope… A tiny ray of sunlight slicing through the midnight darkness that was his mind now, too small to hold on to, almost. Almost.

The light was waning fast, dying down to leave him in darkness again, alone, and Dean tried to grasp that fragment of hope, of reason as if it was the only opportunity capable of saving him left.

Because it was, it really was.

The light, for some weird reason, was talking to him and even stranger still, it was talking to him with the voice of his little brother. The soothing, sympathetic tone, low and warm, wrapping itself around the tendrils of white hot anger, pulling it back a little, letting him see again. Well, not literally see…not with his eyes open and all, but he could see things clear as day in his mind, at least, for just a little while, could see and hear and know what the hell he'd done, what was wrong.

The knowledge almost breaking him apart again right then and there.

At the same time that the light was blinding with it's stark, harsh sense of _reality_ it was also reassuring, because for the first time in at least a couple of hours, if not days now he didn't have the feeling that he was alone in this. He knew that there was someone there, waiting for him, helping him to find his way out.

It lasted far too briefly, he couldn't really fight his way out of the haze that surrounded him to make contact. He didn't manage to push past the pain that engulfed his whole body, set it on fire from somewhere deep down in his belly and shooting fierce and angry bolts of fire and ice through him, making him shiver and sweat at the same time. Making him want to _scream._

He heard words tumbling from his cracked and dry lips and it almost felt unreal, like someone else was saying them. Even though, ok, his array of choice words was not too unimpressive on a regular day, but this right now was a bit…over the top, even for him. Even if you put aside the fact that he was directing those words at the two only people that he even cared about anymore.

He felt like choking on those words, felt like lashing out at himself. He wanted to rip out his own tongue…anything to just stop this - _stopthisstopthisstopthis._ His eyes welled up with the pain and effort it took to just try and stop cursing and screaming, to stop hurting the two people he loved more than himself.

He understood now…understood how those other pour souls that had been possessed before him had chosen to take their own lives after, because there was no way he could live with himself after this. He had hurt his brother. Physically as well as emotionally, there was no denying it. And no matter what Sam could ever say or do would convince him otherwise, would ever make it right again.

Some of those things he'd said…about Sam and mum and dad and Jess…

So, maybe, when he felt himself slipping into the abyss again it wasn't such a bad thing. Maybe it wasn't all that unwelcome…

Yeah, it definitely _was _better not knowing, in the end.

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

They prepared everything in silence. The only sounds filling the room emanated from the bed, from Dean, who was writhing and shifting, muscles locked in a constant clenched up position, bathed in sweat. Words of venom streaming like a never ending cascade from his chapped lips.

Bobby had stopped listening to the words spoken. He heard them but chose to not listen to them anymore. Better not to even hear so he didn't even get a chance to be affected by them. The older hunter kept a careful eye on Sam though, painfully aware of the younger man's waning energy, his slightly slumped posture. Aware of the way he kept his back to the wall, always turning towards his brother yet never getting too close, never looking directly at him anymore.

Every movement from the bed, every sound and scuffle registered with the young man, Bobby knew, in a way that only Sam would be able to feel. Bobby could love those boys all he wanted, like his own sons and still all he could give would be nothing compared to the bond those two shared. As much as he envied them for this, right now he knew that it made matters so much harder.

At least Sam had eaten, he also kept himself fairly hydrated. The fact that he hadn't slept properly in quite a while now started to show, he was getting erratic in his movements, slightly fidgety and jumped easily. His eyes had taken on that dark look again, lowered and hidden most of the time, that made Bobby fear he still might snap at any second, should even the slightest thing go wrong.

It had been close to impossible to tend to Dean any further than what was absolutely necessary, the kid throwing himself into even more violent fits whenever anyone got close to him now, damaging his arms and shoulder even further. He wouldn't drink even though he had to be parched to say the least, wouldn't eat, of course, wouldn't let them so much as touch him to re-bandage his wrists, let alone close the fully reopened cut on his right hand again. Bobby had put a bag of ice to his shoulder, hoping to be able to at least ease some of the throbbing pain that he knew to be present after popping a dislocated shoulder back in. If not properly taken care of, something like that could mess up your mobility for quite a while, but Dean had managed to struggle the cooling bag off within minutes, had managed to pretty much rip the sheets to shreds as well.

The kid had never known how to make things easy on himself.

Bobby finished mixing the last concoction in one of the three empty water bottles lined up on the table in front of him, screwed the cap back on and put them up in the appropriate order. One look at Sam told him that the kid was done copying the ritual he had given him, had highlighted the passages that Bobby would need help with, using a yellow marker. Sam now sat, nervously picking at the page where Bobby had crudely drawn the symbols they'd need for the ritual.

They both seemed to want to delay it all, at the same time knowing that it was vital that they'd get this done as soon as possible, not just for their own sakes. There was no telling how much longer Dean would be able to hold on, not with the strain the Ragazara put on his mind and the obvious damage it was afflicting to Dean's body.

That and the damage Dean was doing to himself.

What Bobby missed the most, right now, was Dean's out of place humour, the young man cracking a joke that both Sam and Bobby would scowl at but would make them laugh nonetheless, which would lighten the mood considerably and make this so much easier.

Great, how you learned to appreciate people the most once they were not there.

Bobby and Sam sat unmoving for a minute, collecting their thoughts, going over everything again in their heads. Preparing themselves. Then Bobby got up and made sure that the door was locked tight, the windows completely covered by the flimsy curtains. He lay thick salt lines in front of every window and door so they wouldn't be disturbed by any unforeseen visitor, human or otherwise. Sam meanwhile gathered the supplies, carrying them over to the unoccupied bed, lining them up.

When Bobby turned towards the bed again he was aware of slits of green, glazed over and surrounded by angry red watching Sam's every move, lips moving and spilling obscenities, spitting venom, but luckily enough Sam seemed to not really hear them at the moment. His face was pinched in concentration as he forced himself not to listen.

Still no word passed between the two standing hunters as they switched places, Bobby getting between the beds, lighting the candle Sam had put there, picking up the ruffled piece of paper with the sketches on it and laying it on the bed next to the coiling body.

Sam crouched down on his knees on the other side of the bed and immediately Dean's head snapped over, dragging towards him. Sam picked up Dean's favourite knife, his bowie, the knife his brother kept on or close to his body at all times, even in sleep. Bobby could see Sam flinch at the feral glint that flashed in Dean's eyes at the sight before he basically threw himself at his brother, only being stopped by the cuffs, slicing deeper into already raw and bloody flesh.

Sam put a hand forward and Bobby could see the suspicious wet glint in the kid's eyes, could see the hand trembling as he let it hover over Dean's chest, just short of touching, his eyes flicking up to meet the older hunter's who nodded at him once.

Dean bucked as Sam made contact, back arching, an almost inhuman sound rolling out between clenched teeth. It was a mixture between a moan and a scream and Bobby was pretty sure that he heard Sam make a sound too, something much more like a pained whimper as he grabbed a handful of is brother's shirt. Bunching it up in his fist Sam pressed the knife to the fabric, cutting it, ripping the sweat-soaked material off his brother's writhing body.

Bobby had no idea if the paint he'd brought to draw the symbols onto Dean's body would hold on the sweat slicked skin. Yet the alternative, no, the preferred way to do this, the way it had been described in the book his friend had given him was so far out of the question that he hadn't even dared to bring it up with Sam, knowing what his reaction would have been.

The way this was usually done was carving the sigils into the host's skin. Sealing them with his own blood to make them stronger, impossible to break.

It wasn't going to happen, Bobby didn't need Sam to tell him that.

So, paint would have to do…there was enough of Dean's blood all over his arms to trail the paintings with later, to fortify the symbols and enhance the force. It simply had to make do. There was only one symbol they he wouldn't get around incising, that they'd have to use the knife for.

The last one, the one to make it all work, hopefully, in the end.

But that could wait until later, until they had done everything else. It had to be done and Bobby knew it but still he dreaded doing it more than anything else.

He'd let Sam do the drawings, the kid was a much better artist than him anyway. Bobby would take care of that final symbol, then. No matter how untalented, no matter how much he hated it, he wouldn't leave that one to Sam. The kid had enough to digest as it was.

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

The pain started as a dull ache at the base of his skull. Nothing he couldn't deal with, hadn't dealt with on more occasions than he could count, even though those migrainy headache things were more Sam's forte but still…

By the time awareness was in his grasps again, the ache had spread throughout his whole head, latching on to that spot behind his eyeballs and he really thought that maybe he should just go back under and enjoy the relative peace a little while longer. Only that the best sleep was worth nothing as long as he kept worrying about his baby brother.

Opening his eyes was out of the question, the pressure behind them close to unbearable and he wondered if maybe there was something wrong with his head…for real this time, like maybe his brain had been liquefied and now wanted to get _outoutout_, lapping against the walls of the prison holding it in.

He tried to bring a hand up to his face, tried to feel, scrub, peel…anything at all to make it stop, just for a little while. But his hands wouldn't move, his arms held tight, restrained, pinned down and tied up… He groaned, deep and heartfelt, not caring who might be hearing it as he struggled against the paralysis, fighting to ignore the pain in his head along with the one coursing the rest of his body.

There was a weight on his chest, his shoulders, something touching his face and forehead. Momentarily he felt the pain behind his eyes subside ever so slightly, thought he heard a voice pushing past the blood furiously beating in his ears, only he couldn't really make out what was being said, couldn't determine if the words were directed at him or not. If they were friendly or threatening.

Something held him, not only his arms but his legs as well, pinning them to the mattress, weighing him down so he could barely do more than wriggle a little. He was hot, his body burning while at the same time he shivered so badly that he could barely stop his teeth from chattering violently.

His eyes opened reluctantly but he had trouble seeing through the haze that was his vision, the sweat dripping between his wide open lids, burning, searing. He barely heard anything that was going on around him, was superficially aware of the voices surrounding him but not really grasping their meaning, not caring to, either. All he cared about anymore was the pressure in his head, his chest, his abdomen, that threatened to crush him, rip him apart.

There was this voice, inside of him, his own voice talking, begging, screaming at him to get up and do it, end it…to shut Sam up. For good this time.

Every last atom in his body screamed at him to do it, end it, free himself of this burden that was his life now, to make it all better. Only that there was another part, somewhere way at the back of his conscience, almost too far away to grasp, that told him no. A primal instinct so deeply ingrained into his very core, his being, that he couldn't for the life of him just ignore it.

_Carry your brother outside as fast as you can... Watch out for Sam. Make sure he's alright. Above everything else, make sure Sam is alright._

The voice his fathers – and his own, his normal self, annoyingly insistent and for a split second he though he could sympathize with Sammy when the kid again complained about Dean being too chipper or way out of line buzzing on some sort of sugar hype or plain pleasure to tease.

Hell, if he managed to annoy himself, it really had to be bad, right?

Only right now, it was more than annoying, this little voice inside him, telling him to not give in, not give up, to fight this…_for Sam. _It wasn't only grating on his nerves but hurting, really, physically hurting him. Every pull towards _making this right_ ripping another piece out of him, tearing at his reserves and slicing him open a little more, bleeding him out slowly but steadily.

The more he fought, the harder it got, the more it freaking _hurt_.

There was no way he was going to be able to fight this much longer. He thought he had a pretty high tolerance for pain, but this…this was insane - way out of his league. He felt both his body and mind shutting down on him but had no clue how to stop it.

Not much longer…

His eyes were on Sam…always Sam who he loved and hated at the same time, more than he ever thought possible. It hurt to see the fear and doubt and pain in his little brother's eyes. It lasted only for a second before Dean was overtaken by hatred and anger again and he succumbed to the rage that threatened to rip him apart if he didn't listen to it, obey to it.

His body strained towards the young man in front of him, the one person left on this planet that he would have died for…that he cared for so much more than he'd ever cared for anything else. The burning agony in his wrists hardly registered above everything else, the way his shoulder begged for relief, a dull hum somewhere way back in his mind. There was nothing but this urge to get his hands around his brother's throat again, slice his beloved knife hilt-deep into that soft stretch of skin right underneath Sam's jaw…

Already he could see it, feel it, _taste _it - anger coiling in his stomach like a poisonous snake, raising its ugly head, striking with an open jaw and digging its fangs into his intestines. Ripping him apart from the inside out.

Sam extended a hand towards him, Dean's knife…_his own knife_… moving towards him, getting closer and closer.

There was a flash of hope that maybe Sam was indeed stronger than Dean himself was, that Sam would be strong enough to release him from this hellhole that was his life now. But then the fight came back, the need to survive and make Sam _pay. _Dean bucked and arched against his bonds, might have made a sound or two.

He distinctly heard the rip of fabric, felt the cool air of the room cling to his sweat stained chest and abdomen, making him tremble like a goddamn baby. It took a second for him to register, but then there was another sound, some shuffling and movement of the mattress and he thrashed out once more, swinging his legs for lack of movement with his hands and arms. He felt himself hit something, heard a painful grunt and some expletives that did surprisingly little to soothe his coiling need to _hitscreampunchhurtkill_.

Then there were more hands, more weight pushing him down, pressing him into the wet and stifling mattress.

"Nghhh…"

More hands, holding onto his legs, pressing them down and apart a bit but when they let go of him again he still wasn't able to move them and he felt and heard the bed rattle with each renewed pull and push of his legs.

They'd fucking tied his legs…they'd tied his legs to the goddamn bed…

He felt tears of humiliation and anger burn in his eyes as he turned them towards his brother, seething each and every ounce of emotion he had left towards him, to make him _see_. If he couldn't hurt the kid physically, he'd goddamn give everything to make him pay, nonetheless. To make him see and freaking let him fall to pieces from his own guilt. That sounded just about fair.

It was those eyes again that almost tripped him, oozing with guilt and heartache as Sam's hand once again extended towards Dean, touching his cheek, drawing away just in time before Dean could take a chunk out of it with his bare teeth. He'd fight till the end. With everything he had left.

Hands, from the other side of the bed this time suddenly grabbed his face from both sides and held him immobile, thumbs pressing painfully in the juncture of his jaws to force them open. Then they started pouring something into his mouth and clamping his lips shut before he could expel the foul smelling liquid.

Dean's eyes widened impossibly as he fought the urge to swallow, felt his eyes tear up once more as the need to breathe almost overwhelmed him. Another hand covered his nose, took away the last supply of air, of hope to get out of this somehow.

His body bucked involuntarily, last vestiges of a fight long lost burning through him before his throat opened up on its own account, gulping for air but finding the liquid instead, letting it flow down and disappear into his heaving stomach. The hands let go then, one lingering a bit longer, soothing over his forehead before retreating for good, giving him space again.

He choked, coughed a couple of times, fought the urge to throw up whatever those two had forced down his throat. However bad it had been, throwing up was still not very high up on his list of things to do right now.

By the time he had himself under control again, he felt something brush his bare chest.

Oh god, couldn't he ever catch a break here? Were they freaking _drawing _something _on him_?

There was nothing he could do really to stop them, but he wasn't going to make this any easier than he needed to. The words intending to hurt, the movements meant to at least make their work harder, smearing and distorting whatever they were painting on him. He put everything he had into this fight, knowing it probably was his last.

He wasn't going to go out without a fight.

When the sensation of the brush on his over-sensitive skin stopped, he thought he heard an argument breaking out…words swirling around him, spoken in anger and frustration. He could see them stepping back from the bed, his brother standing nose to nose to the older hunter yet the rush of his own blood in his ears was too loud for him to hear what they were saying.

Not that it mattered.

Dean felt himself drifting, his strength waning dangerously, he knew that much. His muscles ached, every single one of them, muscles he never even knew existed, from being locked and cramped up like this for hours, shaking from sheer exertion by now.

Why didn't they just end this already?

Then, suddenly a slicing pain on his chest, surprising him, making him scream. His chest arched again, muscles in his back seizing as Dean voiced the agony shooting through his tortured body.

His back arched off the mattress, then dug back into it, knees trying to draw up towards his chest instinctively but getting stopped by the ties as he attempted to ease the cramps torturing his abdomen, the spasms ripping through his chest.

There were hands again, everywhere and nowhere, pressing him, down, to the side, away and towards.

Through a slit in his swollen lids he could see Sam, holding him down, one hand on his forehead, the other on his shoulder, jaw set in determination, eyes gleaming wildly. Then Dean caught sight of his own knife, moving towards his chest again, slicing, drawing another scream out of him.

Bobby…Bobby was cutting him up and Sam did nothing to stop him held him in place for the other hunter to do his dirty work, helping him torture his own brother.

Dean gave everything he had left, then, every last expletive and curse, every punch, no matter how low the hit, no matter how wrong.

He felt heat and panic and anger coiling into threads so tight, so thick, it made breathing almost impossible. Words were swirling all around him as something dripped onto his chest, burning in his wounds, some other liquid forced into his mouth, down his throat. It made him gag again, his throat unable to swallow. Dean felt his strength waning, the darkness engulfing him, taking him away.

His body shutting down on him.

He needed to end this…and if he couldn't, then so help him god, his brother better fucking do it for him.

Because if Dean was able to free himself…if he was able to get away…

God, Sam better end this…and he better end it fast.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

At first, Sam had been thankful when Dean finally stilled, his body slumping down upon the sweat stained mattress, head lolling to the side, eyes closed. He'd have given anything at this point, anything not to be forced to look into those eyes anymore, orbs of green that he knew so well, that had been looking at him, had looked out for him all his life but that had shot daggers of pure hatred and loathing at him over the past hours, days even.

By the time Dean stilled, Sam pretty much felt like passing out himself. He was soaked in sweat, trembling from the effort of holding his bucking brother still, hoarse from alternately whispering soothing words into his brother's ear and reciting his parts of the exorcism when Bobby had to take over another part of the ritual.

Sam helped Bobby to spread some new concoction over Dean's heaving chest, forced some foul tasting liquid down his brother's constricting throat.

Sam painted the symbols, made Dean drink the brew, almost forced to choke his brother again so he'd finally swallow. He'd almost chickened out when Bobby had told him about that last symbol, had almost punched their old friend and thrown him out of the room.

Of course he knew that Bobby was right, that he'd never do anything that would hurt either of them without having explored every other way possible. If Bobby said they needed to do this, it was the only way. Only, it never was that simple once it came to executing it.

The only thing Sam regretted – or at least didn't feel right about was that he'd conceded in letting Bobby carve the symbol into his brother's skin. Sam should have done it himself, that much he owed Dean. Dean would have never, ever let anyone else do it if their roles had been reversed.

But, in the end, Sam hadn't been able to face up to it, hadn't been able to put enough fight and determination in his words to make Bobby abandon his post. He'd let Bobby do the dirty work.

Sam held on to his brother as Bobby carved that last symbol onto Dean's chest, right into his left pec, right above his brother's heart.

Using Dean's own knife to do the deed, which had felt like the last punch, the last betrayal, somehow.

But Sam was glad in a way, because the scream Dean let out when the knife had cut into him had pretty much torn Sam's heart out and ripped it to shreds. He wasn't sure if he'd have ever been able to finish, after that blood-chilling sound – a sound he'd never thought to hear from his brother, ever.

From the look of it, Bobby had a hard time himself. But, much like Dean, Bobby had a way of blocking out anything else around him when doing something he didn't want to do, something that hurt him more than the person he was doing it to. However they managed to stay sane, Sam didn't know. He hardly knew how he himself pulled through, most of the time.

---

When Dean slumped down and lay still again, both Bobby and Sam were left dumbstruck for a second. The sudden stillness in the room was paralyzing. The air in the room suffocating, as if Dean had drawn out all the oxygen available and Sam almost gagged at the stale taste mixing with the acid-like flavour still clinging to the back of his throat.

The two hunters shared a quick look, relief and worry equally expressed in this one meeting of their eyes. Then they sprang back into action, fuelled by hope and desperation more than anything else right now. They both knew that, but it was all they had right now.

Sam was running on adrenalin alone, but he'd done it before, he could definitely pull it off now, even more so when it was his brother he was doing it for.

He took hold of Dean's face, tilting it upwards, nervously checking his pulse, releasing a quivering breath when he found it racing and flickering out of proportions…but at least it was there. He nodded towards Bobby, indicating that he could move on, finish this, once and for all.

Sam didn't dare look at Dean's arms and wrists, didn't want to see what he knew would be raw and open skin and flesh, cut deeply and scraped bloody by his brother's fruitless yet fierce attempts to free himself, to fight them off, to kill them. The impromptu padding he'd managed to slip underneath the cuffs earlier had been rubbed and grinded out of the way long ago, moved and ripped by Dean's incessant pull and tear on his bonds, blood running sluggishly but persistently down his upturned arms. The sight of it made Sam nauseous.

He couldn't get behind his brother, cradle his body in his arms, support him against his own chest the way he wanted to, to keep him close, lend him the strength and comfort he knew Dean needed - deep down still needed. The way Dean was bound, had to be bound in order to protect him from himself, protect _them_ from _him_, made this kind of contact impossible right now.

Sam kept one hand on his brother's forehead, worked his fingers into Dean's short, sweat-soaked hair, lacing them in and holding on.

Dean's face was sunken in unconsciousness yet still not peaceful, almost hollowed out. The fight of the past days evident in every hard set pain-line around his eyes, the strong set of his jaw, his chapped lips. His face was flushed, large beads of sweat dancing on the ridge of his upper lip, the tip of his nose, weighing down the tips of his long lashes. Even now he still looked like he was fighting, suffering, fighting some more.

Dean's chest heaved, the oily black paint standing in stark contrast to the pale of his skin, lines traced shakily with smears of blood that looked almost like a child's finger-drawings. The crude carving on his chest still oozed blood. The cuts weren't particularly deep, but they were deep enough for the blood to seep steadily, the edges of the wound opening and curling outwards to reveal the layers of skin and muscle underneath.

The wound wouldn't kill him, but it sure as hell would hurt – and scar. Adding to the collection already adorning his brother's body. One of far too many. Just another reminder of a hunt that hadn't gone quite as planned.

Nothing out of the ordinary - only, also not quite as usual.

Sam felt Dean twitch and tremble beneath his fingers, felt him stiffen but turn his head into his little brother's touch, seeking the feeling of something familiar and comforting before drawing away again. Muscles were rolling angrily, pressing against pulled taut and fever flushed skin.

Sam couldn't take this any longer.

He looked up at Bobby, caught his eyes, holding them.

"Let's finish this…"

Trying to give his voice strength and resolution he wasn't feeling. Not at all.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

tbc

_AN:_

_I know it was long and kinda intense chapter (and yeah, I'm biting my nails as to whether or not it was too much, or too whatever…but I'm not going to whine about it – *yay me!*), so I'm not going to bore you with an incoherent authors note._

_Thanks to OcherMe, for the once again awesome beta-job!_

_Thank you guys for sticking with me and for reading and reviewing and all the support so far._

_I'd love to know what you think, so if you find the time to leave me a quick review, I'd really, really appreciate it!_

_And the next chapter should be up next week, as usual. Take care!_


	13. Chapter 13

_Here goes the next chapter – hope you like it:_

**Chapter 13**

Waking up was not a subtle thing. Nothing easy, not even by a long shot.

Didn't work quite as planned either, certainly not one of those _rip your lids open as if waking from a nightmare_ thing, not slowly blinking to wakefulness either. His eyes were heavy as lead and flat out refused to budge for at least a couple of minutes, maybe more. No way to tell. There was a faint ticking sound, like from a watch, but he'd be damned if he'd start counting the seconds just to find out how long it took him to achieve his goal - because it really didn't matter. All that mattered was that it worked in the end.

Hurt like hell, but it worked.

The first thing that came into focus was the ceiling – off-brown and cracked plaster with some questionably looking stains that he couldn't help but stare at for some agonizing minutes. He blinked sluggishly, trying to make sense of it all but failing miserably.

He didn't know why he felt so completely spent and beaten, why every single atom of his body seemed to beg for rest and peace. But it was those apparently worn and beaten muscles that made going back under almost impossible, that kept him in a state of semi-awareness. He thought he felt a slight tremor, nothing visible, yet an ever present shiver, internally almost, that made settling down impossible at the moment.

Sam…he needed to wake Sam. Maybe he could help, could clear things up a little, help him to focus. His brain felt like a muddled mass of disjointed thoughts and feelings that he couldn't for the life of him make sense of.

And that Dean hated. He was used to being in control, to be on top of his game, no matter at what time of day or night he woke up, no matter how roughed up from a hunt or a night at the bar. It was a trait inevitable to the life they led, a vital virtue their dad had ingrained into their very being from a very early age on. Even before the whole demon issue had become somewhat foremost in their minds. Dean had known, pretty much from the time he turned four and woke up in the middle of the night to find their house on fire, to find himself, still half asleep with a wailing baby Sammy cradled in his arms, that no matter how deep he slept, no matter how good the dreams, he had to be on top of his game the very moment he opened his eyes.

So, this now – the confusion, the not knowing, was definitely something that not only bothered him – no, it scared him. Because even though he had no idea why the hell he felt the way he did, he knew that it _couldn't _be good under the best of circumstances.

Him not being in control could only mean that either Sam had taken over for him – or else they were screwed.

Sam…

Dean rolled his head on the pillow, squinting as the change in position made his head throb and his eyes tear up involuntarily.

That was when he found him.

Sam was right there, right next to him. He was hunched forward awkwardly in the chair he was sitting on, arms folded on the mattress next to Dean's right arm, his forehead buried in the crook of one elbow, hiding his face from the world. Unruly shags of brown hair spilled all over the place and one huge paw rested heavily, yet warm and reassuringly on Dean's right forearm.

Dean blinked a couple of times, tried to focus his blurry vision, tried to determine where exactly he was and what he was doing wherever that would be, what had happened to mangle his head up so badly.

All he remembered was that very important urge to talk to his brother, to make sure he was alright. Nothing unusual there, it had been a constant companion to Dean pretty much all his life, so waking up to that thought didn't surprise him much. Yet it did seem to carry a somewhat greater importance this time around. And the feeling was strange…mangled up somehow, a mixture between wanting to get closer to Sam, to put a hand on his head and ruffle that mop of hair of his – and the very, very weird urge to get away from him, get himself away. As far as possible – as fast as he could manage.

Dean's head hurt, a constant drumming, throbbing beat behind his eyeballs, throughout his whole skull, but he had a feeling that it had been much worse not too long ago.

Oh, fuck…wait a minute.

A surge of hatred so pure and strong that it almost choked him washed through him and he gulped for air as his lungs suddenly seemed to deflate, to fold in on themselves. But it wasn't so much a current feeling but a memory – a sick and twisted imprint on his brain, the remnant of something that had been a part of him not too long ago.

And not just part of him – it had been _him_.

_Him__._

_Dean Winchester._

He'd wanted, no intended to kill his own brother.

His own brother.

Sammy.

He'd been willing to give it his all, his everything, to achieve that one single goal. Even if it meant tearing himself apart in the process.

Fuck.

_Fuckfuckfuckfuck._

He panicked very impressively all of a sudden, a sickening onslaught of images and sounds and memories that made him dizzy and he tried to lift his arm, his hand, to feel if Sammy was alright, still breathing. The way he lay there, unmoving… Maybe Dean had managed to free himself, had managed to…

Pain spiked through his arm, running down to his hand and sneaking up towards his shoulder, spreading through his chest, his stomach - his whole goddamn body.

God, he couldn't even move his arm without almost passing out.

He thought he might have groaned, but apparently no sound had made it past his lips, which felt like they'd been worked over with the roughest kind of sandpaper available. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as if glued there, swollen out of proportion and he didn't manage to bring enough spit into his mouth to even moisten his lips.

He tried nonetheless, tasted blood in his mouth, refused to give up though.

_Oh god…what if he'd hurt Sam__?_

He tried lifting his left arm, attempting to roll over and nudge the kid, push him off to see if he was moving at all. So far Sam had failed to even stir.

Dean's left shoulder came to life all of a sudden, and again he thought he might have cried out, only to find new blood filling his mouth, or at least the coppery taste of it coating his oral cavity, making him gag.

Which was when it first struck him - he could move his arms. Well, not move exactly, but they weren't tied above his head anymore, not shackled to the bedpost like when he'd last been more or less aware. His legs moved too, only and inch or so, but they moved, even though his muscles clearly didn't think this to be a great idea to begin with.

Screw them.

Pain had never made him stop. He'd never let anyone else tell him what to do. Well, besides dad, but that was somewhat besides the point. Dad was gone, they were on their own now.

Fuck this right there and back again.

His brain worked in overdrive as he tried to remember, to grasp at the little snippets that he thought might have been reality but really could be anything but. He remembered being tied, being forced to drink something, then some weird sensation on his chest…then pain. Hard to tell with the pain though, because it had been and still was pretty much everywhere, but he was pretty certain that there had been a different kind of pain, standing out from the other ones that had already made themselves a very decent home in his body.

His chest…they'd been carving something into his chest.

He managed to drag his left hand up towards his chest, the arm so heavy it was close to impossible, but since it wasn't weighed down by something freakishly heavy like, say, his little brother's ginourmous head or hand, he succeeded in the end. It did register that his shoulder still didn't move much, almost like it was strapped to his chest or something, but his forearm was doing just fine from the elbow down, despite the weird, kinda numb sensation from his wrist up to the tip of his fingers. Despite the fact that every muscle seemed to work overtime to make him fail.

_Well, get a life_, it would take more than that to bring Dean Winchester down.

His fingers traced over bare skin, which was a little weird, but than again, he remembered them _drawing_ on him…then a thick patch of gauze right above his left chest, his heart. He started working feverishly on getting the thing off, suddenly more set on feeling what was underneath than taking care of the other business that had occupied his mind barely a minute ago.

He felt goose bumps covering his skin, felt himself starting to shiver, the little tremors of pain that dragged after.

God, he felt like he'd gone 10 rounds against a whole bunch of cage fighters…and it didn't look like he'd won.

The gauze came off eventually and the sticky feel of some sort of ointment, something medical he couldn't name at the moment, as well as the distinct feel and smell of blood, tingled at his senses.

This time, he did groan. Feeble and barely audible, but he did make a sound. He was almost pretty sure.

A movement to his right accentuated his belief, but the weight on his arm merely shifted a little, pinning the limb even more awkwardly before settling down again.

A surge of hot tears suddenly stung behind closed eyelids, demanding to be let out when Dean realized what that meant.

Sammy was still alive…still breathing. Conscious enough to react to a sound Dean made, even though it hadn't managed to throw him into gear yet. Well, it had been a pretty kitten-like mewl, to be honest, so there would be no reason for Sam to believe that Dean had been the one making it, right? Now, a manly groan Sam would have immediately been able to pin to his brother…

Alive…Sammy was alive. Dean hadn't killed him, hadn't cut his throat like every fucking instinct had told him to…like he'd fought against so hard, he'd have much rather cut his own throat just to stop having these thoughts.

He hadn't done it.

And from the looks of it, the exorcism or ritual or whatever the hell Sam and Bobby had performed had worked. Right? Because why else would he lie here, untied and patched up, still alive, not wanting to kill anyone anymore? Well, anyone besides the bitch that was dancing a freaking tango inside his head…and the guy that invented sugar free maple syrup. What the hell did the world need sugar free maple syrup for?

He wanted to laugh at his own witticism, ended up coughing instead.

At least, he finally seemed to be making a _real _sound.

A sound loud enough that the weight on his arm suddenly stirred, lifted as if struck by lightening, the bed dipping and swinging when Sam reared off it. Shaggy bangs were hanging into his eyes as he sat up straight, back popping audibly, hand still on Dean's arm, gripping him more tightly unconsciously. Dean wanted to hiss at the pain that caused, but right now it just felt so fucking good to see his brother awake and…well, relatively aware…ALIVE, that he couldn't have cared less if someone would have gotten to work on him with a baseball bat.

Sammy - alive.

Looking like hell, granted, but alive and relatively unharmed and looking like a Scottish-sheepdog on its way to get shorn.

Then Dean saw the angry bruises covering his brother's face, the dark purple shiner, the bright red line across his throat, right underneath his adam's apple.

Oh god, he had done this? Had _he _done this?

He couldn't take his eyes off his little brother's face, all messed up and so disoriented, a little dried trail of drool in the corner of his mouth. This would have so called for some snark remark, anything…but even if Dean did have control over his voice - which he still hadn't - he couldn't get past the sight of what he'd done.

"Smy…"

Well, that didn't sound right, he seemed to have lost his vowels somehow, but at least it did achieve what it had been intended for. It got Sam's attention, snapped him right into the here and now. His eyes latched onto Dean's face so sharply, Dean felt himself wince a little, blinking rapidly for a second to bring Sam into focus again.

Dean wasn't sure what he'd see there, which emotion might come seeping out of his little brothers eyes. Anger, hurt, betrayal…fear?

What he saw though, made him almost lose it right there.

A smile so wide and bright (damn those teeth…he didn't even brush them all that regularly, how did they manage to stay so damn white anyway?), so genuine and relieved, Dean felt like toppling right over the edge.

Then, of course, the immediate switch to worried _Florence Nightingale Sam_ as his little brother scooted forward, almost falling off the chair, no, actually and truly slipping off the chair, hitting the floor with a thump of his knees. He leaned over the bed, the hand on Dean's arm gripping even tighter while the other hand immediately reached for Dean's face - the girly sucker - touching his forehead, his cheek.

"Dean…fuck, god…Dean. You're awake…you're…are you…can you hear me? Say something…do something, like, nod or something. Squeeze my hand…"

Sam's hand shifted suddenly, slipping from Dean's forearm to his fingers and lacing through them, goddamn hurting there too, but Dean couldn't help but hold onto them with whatever strength he had left, squeezing them for all it was worth.

Which wasn't a lot, but it seemed to be enough.

The smile again spread over Sam's face, dimples deepening impossibly, making him look so much like Goofy, it was hilarious as he squeezed right back, his other hand ruffling Dean's hair, for crying out loud, hand gripping even tighter.

And to hell with all the happiness about him waking up and all, but it really hurt this time. Right from his wrist over his hand to his fingers. The wrist…had to be from being tied up, maybe fighting that a little bit in his stupor…the hand from the cut he'd received by Mark. The fingers…he'd be damned if he knew, but there was no way he was able to hide the wince and smirk as Sam pressed them together like a vice.

Sam's face fell a little, then, realizing what he'd done, let off the pressure, shifting back to his forearm again.

"God…sorry. Sorry Dean. Your hand…you broke a couple of fingers. We set and splinted them. Relocated you shoulder, again, too, strapped it up. I…we…how are you feeling? Do you need anything? Can you talk? Are you thirsty?"

A thousand questions Dean was not going to be able to answer, but the familiarity of it all made him feel so much better instantly. He smacked his lips a little, tried to stick a completely parched tongue out to moisten them.

That finally gave Sam a clue and he untangled his fingers from Dean's hair, grabbed something off the nightstand and brought a glass of water into view a second later.

Realizing that Dean wouldn't be able to sit up by himself Sam scooted onto the bed, never letting go of Dean's arm while pushing one knee behind Dean's neck. He supported him like this while holding the glass to Dean's lips, fending off his weak attempts at trying to reach for the glass himself.

"Here…drink a little. Slowly though."

After a couple of sips Dean was exhausted like he'd just climbed the Mount Everest, head lolling back as he let Sam settle him back into his pillow like a ragdoll. He closed his eyes a bit, breathed through some of the pain and exhaustion yet not willing to go back under again.

He heard Sam say something, something not directed at him, then another presence next to him made him open his eyes again. He squinted up at Bobby, dishevelled and unshaven, unkempt and sans his ball cap, but grinning like a madman too. A little more subdued than Sam, but grinning nonetheless.

He had to be one hell of an entertaining guy, even barely conscious, to be able to make those two happy like that.

Bobby didn't say much, only something along the line of _about time you woke up there, sleeping beauty_, _glad you chose to join us in the fight of evil again,_ still grinning goofily when Sam's face pushed into Dean's vision again. And again Dean winced at the sight of his little brother's bruises.

"It's alright, Dean…don't worry. We've got you. Are you alright? Anything I…we can do?"

It took a while, but finally he was able to say something. Only a word, but hell if he wasn't proud of the outcome.

"Hurt…"

Again Sam's face scrunched up, the worry lines appearing between his brows, his eyes all pained and soulful once more.

"I know it hurts…shit, Dean. Sorry, but there's not much…we've got some Tylenol, but that's about it… We'll go and get something right now if you want…"

God, how slow could he possibly be…didn't he get it?

"No…YOU…hurt?"

He stabbed a finger at Sam - the whole hand since some of the digits were splinted together, about an inch off the mattress, so Sam probably didn't see, but what the hell.

Dean watched as confusion, then realization, then something akin to exasperation washed over his little brother's drawn features. And then he thought that, would he be able to, getting up and getting out of the line of fire would have been a smart move right about then.

Sam started to say something, then thought better of it, closing his eyes briefly as if to steady himself, then opening them again. A little of the immediate anger was gone by then, replaced by a tick of forced patience and maybe even a snippet of affection…but only a little.

"I'm fine, jerk…I'm fine now." His voice so soft, Dean almost didn't catch it.

"Good…"

It became increasingly more difficult to keep his eyes open, but he still wasn't ready. His voice was getting better now, he thought, stronger. He decided to hold on to that for as long as he could.

"Look like shit…had a…rough night?"

A tiny, teeny attempt at disarming humour had never hurt anybody, right?

On second thought…

The emotions were once again chasing themselves over Sam's face, in succession so quick it almost made Dean dizzy to simply watch them twist his brother's features. Bobby's voice sounded in the background and Sam's eyes flicked over to him, then settled back on Dean.

"'t was more like a couple of rough nights, jerk…a whole lot of them…"

That had a strange sound to it. True, they'd both had had some hard days behind them…

"How long…how long have I been…?"

After a short eye-conference with Bobby who seemed to be standing behind Dean now, Sam rubbed a hand over his face, massaging that spot between his brows like he always did when fighting off a migraine or a vision.

Only, no vision now, just plain exasperation, weariness.

"Three days, Dean…"

That startled Dean a little, he scrunched his brow, counting the days. On second thought…yeah, that sounded about right. Three days since he'd been infected, taken over, thrown off track.

He trained his eyes on Sam again.

"No…how long have I been…out? Asleep?"

Maybe all that sleep-deprivation was getting to his little brother by now. Or Sam thought he had been more out of it then he had actually been.

Again that rubbing between the brows-thing, then Sam started massaging his temples before he repeated, in a calm, steady voice that managed to only sway slightly at the end of the sentence.

Dean might not have been prepared for the answer he got.

"You've been out…for three days Dean. Counting from the day we did the exorcism. We finished and you pretty much dropped unconscious and didn't wake up since. I thought…we thought we'd lost you…"

Sam quickly ran his hand over his eyes, not able to hide the telltale wetness there in time.

_Such a girl._

Then it hit him.

Three days…goddamnit. Three whole days of being out of it…three days he didn't remember. Three days of his brother and best friend watching over him, not knowing if he would ever wake up again…

Fuck.

His breathing hitched a bit and he had to swallow a couple of times to get it back under control again, feeling himself blanching as he tried to make sense of it all.

Three days.

The hand on his forearm gripped tighter, bed dipping as Sam leaned closer, the hand on Dean's head moving to his neck and cheek, forcing him to look at Sam.

"It's OK, alright now, Dean. Just…don't panic or something. You're back now. It's alright. As long as you're back…"

It was hard contemplating that, to get his head to wrap around the fact that there were three whole days of his life he had no recollection of. Three days not in control.

Three days…

His head swam with the onslaught of thoughts, feelings. The panic was right there, simmering dangerously close to the surface. The only thing keeping him on this side of it, really, was his brother, right there, right next to him, so close he could smell him. That unmistakable smell of Sam, slightly musky by now, most likely the kid had not even taken the time to even shower during those past thee days, too afraid to leave Dean's side for even that little amount of time.

Dean trained his eyes on his brother, anchoring them to Sam's face, using him as a lifeline, too afraid that if he averted his gaze for even a second, Sam would be gone, _he_ would be gone again, lost in the dark.

He got stuck on the bruises on the side of Sam's face, the deep purple shiner, the red yet somehow already healing line across his throat.

_He had done this…_

There were flickers of images, little imprints of memories somewhere at the back of his mind, too far away to grasp, too quick to make out, but there. He just needed a little time to disentangle them, to digest the information his overworked brain tried to send his way.

He felt like he'd been asleep for days and, and he had, really. His whole body aching, so much…

"Did…I hurt…Did I hurt you?"

Sam shook his head, a little more exasperated.

"No…no you didn't. I pretty much let you have a swing at me…you know, so you wouldn't feel bad, so you wouldn't have to go down without getting one punch in, too. I could have taken you down anytime, dude…"

A crooked grin that didn't quite reach Sam's eyes accompanied the statement, but the attempt at disarming humour baffled Dean just a little bit, flattered him. His brother was learning. Not quite as fast as one might expect from someone with a grade A average and an IQ that went right through the roof but still…

"You wish…" he gasped, smiling faintly, then wincing again.

God, his body felt like he was ninety years old, going on 150.

Sam started massaging Dean's arm, his other hand kneading his neck a bit. Small, soothing movements, warm and reassuring and only a tiny bit awkward. But Dean could always pretend confusion later if he didn't care to fight it now…

"You'll probably be sore like hell…fought like a madman…your muscles were all locked and cramping by the time we were done…"

There was more to it, Dean heard the unspoken words, realized from the way Sam kept looking towards Bobby for reassurance or guidance that the two of them kept something back, but he couldn't, try as he might, bring himself to care.

Sam was there…relatively unharmed, alive. Bobby, too. He wasn't alone in this anymore. He was going to live, even though it might not have felt that way at the moment. He was going to live, everything else he'd worry about later…once he had slept a little, gotten his stuff together.

Which was kind of contradictory, thinking that he'd just been out for three fucking days, but he felt so exhausted, he couldn't think about anything but sleep at the moment.

Right on cue, as if those two were mind readers or something like that, someone spoke to him again.

"Just go to sleep Dean, alright? We'll be here when you wake up, don't worry. It's alright…your body was fighting so hard all this time, it's like you've run marathon for three days straight. Give yourself time and just rest. We'll take care of everything for you…"

That was Bobby's voice and Dean was pretty sure that he felt Bobby's hand on his other arm now, squeezing too. God, what was it with those two and squeezing him like he was some kind of wet washcloth that needed to be wrung out?

But, truth be told, it did feel kind of good, made him feel safe and grounded, despite the pain chasing through pretty much every single muscle in his body. Muscles he didn't even know he had in the first place.

He shivered again, more out of relief than cold, most likely, yet he felt a blanket being pulled up over his chest, the gauze on his chest reapplied before tucking the sheet firmly under his chin.

His eyes were still open yet drooping, falling, but he put everything he had left in keeping them open. God, his head hurt…his eyes, too, but just a little longer, just a little bit…

Again this surge of panic, an overwhelming sense of urgency and he blinked his eyes rapidly, hands digging into the sheets, his fingers not obeying the commands his brain send their way. He felt his throat close up with the effort it took to draw in a good, deep breath, felt himself panting quick, short bursts instead.

A hand - Sam's, from the size of it – settled on his forehead, wiping at his hair, pushing him impossibly down and he hadn't even realized that he'd tried to sit up. Not that the effort had amounted to much, but Sam would notice, of course, darn psychic that he was.

It all came crashing down on Dean then, like an avalanche burying him after he'd run away from it for miles, then stumbling and being overtaken so fast it made your head spin and took your feet out from under you in one giant swoop. He was breathing still, could feel himself fighting to draw in air, yet the life-saving substance never made it to his tortured lungs, never made it past his clogged up windpipe.

The weight, the realization of what had happened, what he'd almost done, was fully prepared to do, despite everything he'd ever promised his dad and Sammy…himself.

Too much, too fucking much to deal with and there was no way to stop him going down now. The panic of not being able to breathe along with everything else pushing him towards the edge even faster.

He heard voices, panicked voices, hands all over him again and the blanket was removed, the pillow behind his head ripped away as strong hands laid him flat on the mattress, his chin tipped upwards, then something pressed over his mouth while two hands continued to hold him down.

He blinked through blurred eyes, lashes sticking together with betraying wetness, gasping, gagging into what appeared to be a paper bag Bobby held to his mouth, urging him to breathe into.

The voices were right there, all around him and he decided to try to listen to what they had to say to him, see if it was anything important at all, anything he needed to know because he was pretty sure that it would be the last thing he'd hear, like, ever. Maybe some last instructions, even though Dean was pretty sure he'd been the one standing on death's doorstep more often then those two had, but still. They were smart. Maybe they knew something he didn't.

His body was shaking violently, hurting so much he wanted to scream and it was hard, so hard to make himself focus enough to listen, but he had to…he just had to.

"Dean…easy Dean, easy. Long, deep breaths. I know it hurts, I know you think you can't do it but you can, you hear me? Easy…just breathe with me. In and out, slow and steady. Dean, please. You're panicking is all. Just try to hold on a little longer, alright?"

Huh…panicking…hyperventilating? That somehow didn't sound like him. He was Dean the fucking rock, nothing could make him panic, right? Well, maybe not. He had been kind of less than dependable lately, so it would only figure that he'd chicken out and get a goddamn panic attack right now, wouldn't it?

Something cold pressed against his chest and it somehow made breathing a bit easier, the shaking a tiny bit less painful. Then something else, equally as cold, against his forehead, some drops of cool liquid squeezing out and slipping into his eyes, which were still open yet sightless, fixed on the disgusting brown ceiling above the bed.

"Long, deep breaths, Dean…push past the pain, long and slow…that's it…that's it. Just a little longer…"

Sam's voice was imperious and strong, demanding to be heard and obeyed. Which made Dean ridiculously proud, for some reason. His little brother could do the weirdest things and Dean would feel proud like a father, watching his kid's school play or soccer game.

So, a deep breath - if Sammy wanted him to, he owed him to at least try. His chest felt like it would cave in with the effort but true to style and demand he pushed past it, tried again. He managed to hold the air in a little longer, then a little longer still until he actually made it without thinking he'd pass out from the pain it caused.

Two more breaths and he felt the dizzy feeling retreat slightly, his vision clearing a bit, then darkening again when his eyes finally managed to slip shut with exhaustion. There was no way of fighting it anymore. The shaking was still there, his muscles having apparently taken on a life of their own as they seized around his bones as if they wanted to shake loose and take off by themselves.

Right now, he couldn't have cared less if they did, would have packed them a snack to take along on the journey - anything just to get them to leave him the hell alone.

The bag was removed from his mouth, the cold cloths replaced by fresh ones, wiping him down and again he thought that he might give them hell for it later…once he could think clearly again…if he even had something akin to a reputation to hold up anymore. Somehow he doubted that he did, though.

Sam's voice, low and soothing and just a bit shaky, guided him along, it seemed, giving Dean the reassurance he needed to know that he wasn't falling anymore.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

tbc

_AN:_

_So, nothing much to say at this point but once again thank you all for the support so far, and I hope you'll stay with me for a little while longer!_

_Thanks also to OcherMe, as usual, for beta-ing this, and for those funky little comments that always make me smile (or laugh out loud…ask my dog – she almost jumped out of her skin more than once…)._

_I really hope you'll tell me what you think. Every single review I ever got and still get is greatly cherished!_

_So, till next week, if you want!_

_Take care!!_


	14. Chapter 14

_I still don't own anything – so without further ado…_

**From this dark room**

**Chapter 14**

The moment Dean was out again, Sam slumped as if the strings that had held the wooden limbs of a marionette had been cut.

Bobby sympathized, but in order to spare the kid he had to hold himself up a little longer, take some of that burden off him.

He snatched the cloths out of Sam's hand and rewet them, wiping Dean's sweat covered torso down once more before pulling the cover back up his body, lifting his head to place the pillow back under it. Through it all, Sam sat motionless, one hand on Dean's arm, the other on his forehead as if still holding him down, thumb running soothing circles between his brother's brows and the pulse-point of his wrist, through layers of gauze. The motion probably meant to sooth his own frayed nerves as much as Dean's, Bobby guessed - not that he didn't know where it was coming from.

The shaking of Dean's body finally ceased and he once more dropped into that unmoving paralysis that Sam and Bobby had come to both hate and crave over the past three days.

At first, they'd hated it, had wanted Dean to do anything besides just laying there as if dead, had wanted him to move, move, please move again. For hours after the exorcism Dean hadn't even twitched one finger, so movement of any kind had seemed like the most desirable thing in the world to both Sam and Bobby.

Once the convulsions had started, the wish for movement had been relinquished so fast, they had doubted that it had ever been there in the first place. Dean's body, rid of that thing inside him was still not done fighting as his locked up muscles had started seizing, screaming for oxygen, for release, sending his body into some sick dance he couldn't control himself - that _they_ couldn't control anymore.

It had been a mirror performance of the seizure that had torn through Dean during the ritual, as they'd drawn the demon out of him, had banished it, never to come back again. They hadn't known if the exorcism had worked, at first, no black smoke coming out of Dean's mouth, no way to check with the help of holy water or a devils trap or nicking him with a silver blade. They'd just needed to hope and wait.

The cramps had not really helped them believe that it was indeed over, even though Bobby had tried to stay strong and confident, for Sam's sake and maybe a little bit for his own, too.

Bobby knew, of course, knew that the way Dean had been tensed beyond belief for days, the way he'd been sore and bruised from his various fights and escapades, the way he had to be bound so he wouldn't do them in, wouldn't do himself any more harm, had to catch up on him eventually. Those hours of the exorcism, the hours before, when he'd pretty much been sprung like the drawn sinew of a bow, muscles pulled taut to the verge of almost snapping, his shoulder popped out of it's socket and his body held in a position that just had to be hell even on a healthy person… The reaction should have been expected, the seizures just a way of fighting off the tension, the pain when he finally was plummeted into unconsciousness, finally letting go.

Still they hadn't been prepared, hadn't expected it to look so bad, to feel so shattering. Dean had been absolutely still for so long, that the sight of him suddenly cramping, shaking, his teeth clenched so tight they both thought they would crack had felt like a bolt of lightening, a crash of thunder in a peaceful summer's night.

They'd finally untied him, not caring anymore if that thing was still in him, praying that it wasn't. They'd held him, much like they'd held him just now, when panic and hyperventilation had triggered another attack much like the other ones, though much less violent. They'd held him and cooled him, Sam talking to him, touching him, massaging his cramping limbs until the attack had eased again.

It had happened a few of times, about five or six all in all and each one had left the two men standing on the verge of collapse, Dean the only one granted oblivion after, Sam and Bobby were left to deal with the aftermath alone. It tore Bobby to pieces and there was no way he could even come close to imagining what Sam felt like. The look in his eyes, always giving away too much as it was, outright killing Bobby now.

And yet the kid hung on, barely so, but he did. For his brother.

The extent to which those two were willing to go for each other was something Bobby couldn't quite contemplate. But he knew that, as long as Dean was fighting, Sam would do the same. Apparently, the trademark Winchester stubbornness had been inherited to both of them. And then enhanced and tuned up a notch.

But they'd made it…they'd made it, against so many freaking odds, Bobby hardly believed it. He had told Sam that there was a chance of the host not surviving the exorcism. Which hadn't been a lie, unfortunately. What he hadn't told him, though, was the fact that the chances of survival were slim to none. Sam would have never gone along with it if he'd known the whole truth, hell, Bobby almost hadn't been able to square it with his own conscience. The only reason he had done it in the end was the knowledge that they had to stop this and that there was no way Dean would ever survive it, anyway, if he'd somehow managed to hurt another human being, let alone his own brother.

Still, Bobby would not have taken the chance, no matter how bad the odds, if he hadn't seen a tiny sliver of hope, a teeny chance that it _would_ work. His source had been pretty clear about this…the stronger the person infected was, the larger the chances of survival.

But he'd also said that the longer he'd been subjected to the madness of the Ragazara eating him from the inside out, scraping away his sanity, the stronger the love, the bigger the determination, the smaller the chances. Well, the man had apparently never heard of Dean _Mr. Fight The Odds_ Winchester, even if said odds were stacked sky-scraper-high against him.

True, his love and devotion for his brother had scooted him towards the edge faster, his dead-set-one-headed mind of love and protection for Sam his sure downfall on one hand, but Bobby knew, without a doubt, that somehow, Dean had still managed to hold back. Otherwise he would have snapped long before he actually had. Because once in motion, stopping Dean was close to impossible. So he had managed to stop himself, kind of, even if just for a second or two, giving his brother the window he'd needed to protect himself, to take Dean down.

Trusting Sam to find a way out of this, one way or the other.

And here they were, not quite out yet, but on the road to getting there, no doubt. A long one, maybe, a painful one, too, but a road nonetheless. And roads the Winchesters knew how to deal with, had dealt with all their lives. Bobby was sure of it.

Bobby sighed heavily and grabbed a glass of water, drowned it in one big gulp before he refilled the glass and went over to Sam's side. He handed it to the kid, who still sat, mumbling and soothing even though he looked like he was gonna keel over himself any second.

Bobby carefully detached Sam's hand from Dean's face, wrapped the kid's long fingers around the glass, practically leading it to his lips until he was sure Sam got it and with one long look of thankfulness, eyes suspiciously glassy but dry, drank a couple of tentative sips before finally gulping it down greedily.

"Thanks, Bobby."

His eyes conveyed everything he wanted to say thanks for right there, starting with a simple glass of water, over coming to their aide, no questions asked, to saving his brother's life. Among other things.

"No problem, Sam."

As simple as that.

He'd do anything for those boys.

Simple as that.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Three days.

For three days straight Sam had sat by his brother's bed, had held his hand and watched him breathe, too afraid that if he'd even dared to close his eyes for a mere second, he'd lose Dean, that his big brother wouldn't be there anymore when Sam woke up again.

Of course, he hadn't prevailed, in the end, had to give in to his body's demand for sleep eventually, but he'd fought it with all he'd had. It was what Dean would have done, if their roles had been reversed, or rather, a fragment of what Dean would have done. His brother so much stronger, so much more selfless when it came to Sam…Sam felt ashamed when he'd woken up after sitting by Dean's side for more than 50 hours, after a mere three hours of sleep that had done nothing but fuel his need for more, had given him a taste of what his body craved more than anything else right now.

Those three days had taken everything, every last ounce of strength and determination out of Sam, so much more than he'd ever thought he'd be able to give. His fear for Dean amplified a million times with each minute passing by without his brother waking up, cracking a joke, smiling that million-watt smile of his.

When the convulsions had started Sam had already reached his breaking point a hundred times over and still he couldn't give in to the urge to just get up and walk the hell away from this room that still held his brother captive, that still refused to let him go.

Sam's heart was breaking, chipping off tiny pieces with each passing minute that he wasn't able to look into those vibrant, expressive green eyes that had been looking out for him all his life. Even when they'd been apart, even when Sam had been away at college, he'd still felt those eyes on him on occasion, had thought he'd gone completely insane when, in the middle of a lecture, or while sitting in the library, while barbequing with friends, he'd suddenly felt this overwhelming urge to turn around and check his back, to see if Dean was watching him from a hiding point somehow.

To this day he still suspected that, at least some of those times, he'd been right. That Dean had been there, lurking in the shadows, watching him, keeping an eye on him. And somehow, it had made him feel better, had made him feel safe.

With Dean out like this, completely helpless and so fucking vulnerable and dependant on Sam's help, Sam felt like a piece of himself was missing. A vital piece, so big, it was hard to imagine being able to live without.

He was eternally grateful that Bobby had been there with him during those three never-ending days of despair and pain and fear. Without Bobby, he didn't think he'd have made it through. The responsibility of having to take care of his brother, almost too much, almost wearing him down. He didn't know how Dean did it, how he'd done it all those years, how he'd been able to keep himself together and moving on regardless of the pressure bearing down on him.

Maybe that was the difference between them, right there and up for Sam to finally understand. But he couldn't, try as he might, figure it out.

Dean had been four years old when his life had been turned upside down. When he'd been given the responsibility of caring for his little brother, his father, too, on more occasions that he could remember. He had to have been hurting, had to have been scared. Unbelievably so. So much more than Sam could ever fathom. But he'd done it. Somehow, he'd done it and not only that, but he managed to be the perfect son, the perfect soldier, the perfect brother and father all in one.

Those walls, the one so carefully built and kept erect were there for a reason. They were there to keep Dean safe from the only thing he hadn't managed to be perfect for. Himself.

Sam hadn't managed to let go, not once, not breaking contact with his brother for even one minute, not even when asleep. He'd held on and kept up hope, despite Dean wasting away in front of his eyes, getting weaker and weaker as the hours ticked by painfully slow.

Sam had held on to his brother through the seizures that seemed to tear him apart, had held him through the aftermath when Dean's body was so weak it was hard to associate the crumbling shell with his larger than life big brother, his fortress, his shield in the line of fire.

And then, when he'd thought that there was nothing left to do, that there was no way out, not this time, that Dean had fought but lost, no deal, no sacrifice to make, no soul to trade, the next seizure being too much and killing his brother, Dean had woken up.

Not with a spectacular, bone jarring blow, no drum-beat accompanying his return to the living. He'd woken up, had simply been there all of a sudden, had come back. Just like he always had. Back to his brother, the way he'd always done, the only way he knew, to stand by Sam side, to simply be Dean again. A little worse for wear, maybe - Ok, a lot worse for wear. A long, long way from being alright, Sam knew that. But back.

That was all that mattered.

He had to be in pain, excruciating pain, even though Sam knew that it would take a lot of work to get Dean to admit that. The absence of serious physical injuries only serving to make Dean fight harder to make them believe that he was alright. Despite the fact that there was no way for him to hide the agony he was in. Both mentally and physically. Sam wasn't stupid, he knew that Bobby hadn't told him the whole truth about this. He knew himself, too, knew that he probably wouldn't have gone along with him.

But he'd done his share of research, had always been good to read between the lines, between the words said or written. He knew that the Ragazara took everything it could take, that it was the inner demon each and every person inhabited, only amplified a million-fold. He also knew that in getting rid of the thing, you didn't get rid of the emotions, the pain the thing had triggered. And the Ragazara didn't leave a host's body willingly. It took with it whatever it could hook its claws into. And left destruction in its wake.

Sam knew all that and still he couldn't get himself to care, not right now at least, even knowing that it would most likely come to bite him in the ass sooner than he liked. But right now all that mattered was that Dean was back. Not completely Dean yet, but on his way there. Sam would make sure of that.

And he had help. At least he had a little support in the form of Bobby who, next to him, cared more about his brother than anybody else. Together they'd get Dean back.

Sam was sure of it.

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

His throat felt like it was on fire. Raw and lined with rows and rows of thorns or spikes, digging into his flesh whenever he tried to swallow. He thought he'd never been so thirsty in his whole life. The need to drink, to lubricate his throat so strong, it almost brought tears to his eyes. Almost.

He tried to assemble some saliva, but where the hell was that supposed to come from, dried up and parched as he was? Instead, the attempt made him gag, cough, and he felt ripples of pain chase through his chest and stomach at the movement, ripping at his muscles like they wanted to tear him to pieces.

He didn't get it, didn't understand how he could feel so…spent, every single muscle in his body strained as if he'd been digging up a whole graveyard, salting and burning nonstop for days on end all by himself. Even then, he thought he ought to feel better than he did right now. His father had taught him a long time ago that the best way to get rid of sore and stiff muscles was movement, but he highly doubted that he'd be able to as much as get up now, let alone run a couple of laps around the block, like his dad would have had him do in situations like this.

His muscles didn't just feel stiff and sore, they felt _torn_ and _bruised_, among other things. So he'd settle for not moving right now. It wasn't as if his dad was there to chastise him for it…

He tried to wet his lips again, gulping painfully onto thin air, coughing roughly.

The dip of the mattress once again startled him and he thought he might have twitched, or at least he felt like he had, only there was no way to be sure with the way his body didn't really move, at all, in reaction.

Screw this.

Only Sammy…Sam, still here, still with him.

He thought he might have sighed with relief. From the look in his little brother's eyes, he just might have made some actual noise this time.

"You thirsty?"

A quick nod, against the splitting headache, too eager to appear nonchalant.

"Good, you need to drink some more…here, let me help."

Sam reached behind Dean's back, sneaking his shoulder behind his neck, supporting his chest with a strong arm and lifting him upright just a little bit. He was having way too little trouble doing this, Dean realized, like, he was experienced or something, like he'd done that about a hundred times in the past three days.

And, considering the way Dean felt, Sam probably had had no choice.

"Coffee?" he ground out, more out of habit than real desire for the hot beverage. He really didn't think that his stomach would be able to handle it at the moment.

Sure enough, it made Sam smile, if just a little.

"Gatorade, the red one. Get over it!"

Sam smirked and Dean forced a pretty decent eye-roll, or so he thought. Even though it felt like that little act split his head in two, but hey, the things he did to see his little brother smile…those dimples giving him back at least a tiny bit of his youthful look.

Dean gulped down the sweet liquid greedily, too greedily maybe, choking on the last sip, coughing painfully, cramping with the jolts of lightening the movement sent through his tortured body.

When he was aware enough again, he heard Sam talking to him, with that soothing, _nurse Betty_ voice he always used when tending to his injured big brother, mumbling words of reassurance and comfort that made absolutely no sense. But they didn't need to, Dean had realized that a lot sooner than today, because it was the voice that mattered, the cadence, the mere knowledge that Sam was there and watching out for him. That was all that mattered, always had and always would matter. Hell, he could have chanted a damn backstreet boys song, or say, Britney Spears – whatever Sam's preference - for all Dean cared, as long as he was simply _there._

When he was done, settled more or less comfortably against his brother's chest, deciding to ignore the humiliating position in favour of the reassurance it actually brought him, Sam nudged him gently once more, getting him to focus back on him.

"Hey…better now? You need to slow down, take small, slow sips, alright? Just a little more, so you don't shrivel up on me here and then we're done, I promise."

Dean groaned, despite himself. The thirst was still pretty much on top of his agenda, true, but the pain and discomfort drinking brought with it not so much. But Sam had a point there, most likely. Still he couldn't keep himself from bitching…one, for old times sake and two, because he knew that, despite everything his little brother would say, it would make Sam feel better. Nothing beats familiarity, right? Dean definitely knew what he was talking about.

"God, look at you. You seem…to draw far too much fun…out of force feeding me…"

Another cough, a little less violent this time.

"Yeah, right, 'cause that's such a freaking party, Dean."

"You _do_ enjoy making me puke…sick bastard…"

"Been there, done that, dude. Time to move on now…"

The way he said it, with that crooked little smirk that sometimes made it hard to discern if he was serious or not, made Dean wonder. But one look into those deep, hazel eyes and he knew, without any doubt, that it went way beyond the metaphor, way beyond all the numerous occasions in their sorry past that Sam had stood by, helplessly, when Dean pretty much puked his guts out.

In those eyes he could see that Sam had most likely spent numerous times in the past three days that he himself spent in sweet oblivion, fearing for his brother's life, tending to his ailing body, his _failing_ body. Sam had been forced to watch pretty much helplessly as Dean shut off continuously, not being able to do anything about it despite trying to force-feed his own brother so his strength wouldn't give out, so he wouldn't die of malnutrition and dehydration, pouring fluids down his throat only to be forced to clean most of it up again mere minutes later, no doubt, when Dean's stomach had not been able to hold them in.

But Sam was anything if not stubborn, something like this wouldn't have made him give up.

Hell yeah, he looked like he'd had a hell of a lot of fun right there.

Sam's eyes were bloodshot and heavy bags adorned his pale face, at least bringing some color to it, even though deep, purplish gray probably wasn't the stylish way to go this season. He looked about as spent and beaten as Dean felt. And then some.

So maybe he really hadn't had all that much fun, lately…

"Sorry Sammy…didn't mean it…" he whispered hoarsely, not managing to look his little brother in the eyes much longer. He'd seen more than he thought he could deal with.

He could feel Sam shift behind him, adjust his weight a little, letting Dean's head roll against his strong shoulder so he could hold him up more easily while leading the damn glass to his lips again. And even though he felt like smashing it out of Sam's hand our of sheer frustration, because he really should be able to hold on to a darn glass by himself, he let Sam help, took two, three more tentative sips before allowing Sam to settle him back down when he had enough. Even though he felt like he could lap up a whole lake right now, his throat was so parched.

"That's enough for now…no too much at first. Your stomach needs to readjust itself to fluids and food again… It'll probably start cramping again pretty soon but just try to hold it in if possible. It will get easier soon, I promise."

He again sounded strong and calm and reassuring, as if he Sam was an expert on the field, which, after three days of getting acquainted with the odds and possibilities, he most likely was. It was a sad testimony of their lives that they were able to sound so much on top of everything when clearly all they wanted to do was cry and hide away from the world.

Dean nodded, trusting his brother on this, like he did with pretty much anything else these days - and always had, as he settled back into the mattress that still felt way too soft, yet he wasn't even able to move his own body enough to find a more comfortable position to rest in. If there even was one. He somehow highly doubted it right now.

He felt the familiar pull on his eyelids, heavy and demanding but fought to keep them open, suddenly panicked that, when closing them he'd lose what right now could very well be just a dream, like some last electrical currents of a dying brain that made you see what you wished for most before you die. Almost like a fish gulping for water, when he'd already been sliced open and degutted and still the nerves in it's body told it to keep on fighting, giving it hope where there really was none left.

"Sam…"

Dean didn't even care how weak his own voice sounded, he just needed to make sure that Sam was still there, not a dream, not a sick illusion of a dying brain.

"Yeah, right here, Dean."

The mattress dipped to the side and when he turned his head, bleary eyes searching fruitlessly for a second there were two huge, soft hands on his cheeks, turning his head the other way, helping him focus on Sam's face, right in front of him, only inches away from his own.

"Good…thought… Where did you go?"

"I didn't go nowhere, man. Been right here the whole time. You dipped off for a minute, got disoriented when you woke up again. You should really go to sleep now, Dean, relax a bit. You're muscles are all bunched up as it is."

"Don't wanna go to sleep…been asleep for too long… Don't…wanna leave again…so soon…"

Dean knew he sounded like a petulant four-year-old, but he really, honestly felt like he didn't want to leave, didn't want to leave Sam. Everything was so fuzzy, the pain coursing through his body so real, so strong… he felt like he could only get through this with Sam right there with him, no matter if that was stubborn or selfish or simply scared. He needed Sam to stay with him, see him through this.

He just wished, feverishly so, that Sam didn't leave, didn't take what Dean had said and done those past days… that he didn't take that to heart and up and leave like he had every fucking right to do, if Dean was even just a little honest with himself.

Sam would have every right to abandon his big brother, turn his back and walk out, out that door that always was there, always had been there to start with. Somewhere a little off to the side, hidden in the background it seemed, coming into better focus every once in a while, moving away again at times. The door through which his brother would leave him again, one day…

Dean started at Sam's voice, blinked him into focus again.

"Well, Dean, you've been unconscious, that's not quite the same. You need rest now. True, actual, healing rest - sleep. I'll stay right here, wake you in a little bit, give you some more to drink, alright? Bobby will be back soon, too. He's gone to get supplies, find you something for the pain. He'll probably dance a jig when he sees that you're doing better... He's been quite worried about your sorry ass, I can tell you…"

Sam smiled sadly - and were that tears in his eyes again? Hell, Sammy was such a girl. And a bad liar. Always had been, even when he was little, trying to convince Dean that he hadn't smashed his favourite Metallica tape, having tried unsuccessfully to rewind the tangled up band but only bunching it up worse in the process.

Sure, Bobby had been worried, he better had. But it wasn't hard to see that Dean hadn't been the only one he'd had to worry about those last days. He'd probably been forced to face the destruction of not only one, but two Winchesters right in front of his eyes.

It looked like Dean had been the lucky one, after all. At least he hadn't been forced to watch this. What was a little physical pain compared to being doomed to watch? He wasn't sure he'd have been able to pull through like his brother had.

Sam had been the strong one in their family all along. He just had always been too stubborn to see it.

Maybe Sam wasn't leaving, just yet, maybe he'd stay a little longer, give him another chance, regardless of whether Dean deserved it or not.

Sleep was there, spreading its welcoming arms, ready to pull Dean down with it within the blink of an eye, but he wasn't ready to go out without getting the last word in – just for the sake of it. Just to make sure Sam didn't worry about him too much. Because if Sam saw him at least trying to be funny and annoying, he'd believe that things were going back to normal for them again.

"Call Bobby…tell him, I need M&Ms, the yellow ones… Gotta built up some strength."

Dean gave the most wicked smile he was capable of, fending off his insecurities the only way he'd ever known – in overplaying them.

But Sammy smirked – hell, he was good. Even feeling like shit, he still managed to make the kid smile.

"I don't think chocolate and peanuts are going to help you get stronger – they're only gonna make you fatten up, dude." Sam chuckled good naturedly.

"Aw, Sammy…you're just jealous…of my awesome bone-structure"

That made Sam snort.

"Yeah, right…if it helps you get through the day..."

And if Dean had felt just a tad stronger, his eyes not slipping shut on him continuously, he'd have given a smart remark, a witty retort – or at least kept up the act a bit longer.

But he didn't feel strong or witty or much of anything right now, so he just decided to let it go for the time being and give in to the ever demanding exhaustion that kept threatening to topple him over the edge as it was. Once he woke up again, he'd be better, stronger, ready to move on.

It sounded like a good enough plan, one that would work, it simply had to. Because once they got out of here, Dean might be able to put it all behind him.

Because he really needed, _needed_ to find a way to put this behind him, behind them.

Even though, right now, he had absolutely no idea how he was ever going to accomplish that.

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

tbc

_AN:_

_Once again I need to thank you for all the wonderful reviews and PMs. I realize that I'm extremely fortunate to have found this kind of support in people I don't even know…so thank you, really. I hope I answered all your wonderful messages. I believe I did, but if I forgot someone, I'm sorry, it was no bad intention at all. _

_Other than that…I'm going to go on a short trip to London next Saturday (yay…), but I hope to get the next chapter done in time for OcherMe to still beta it so I can upload it before I leave, I'll do my best! _

_Oh – almost forgot…I watched "on the head of a pin" last night…and Oh my god…I don't even know what to say. I'm devastated. I know I'm weird, but it physically hurt to watch this episode – all the pain and heartache… and I want the brothers to be together again. I almost can't stand seeing them like this – even though I think the season is great, and them being so…apart from each other only serves to make this whole show even more interesting and intense…but it still hurts. I'm trusting the writers to make it all better again, at some point – don't know if it still happens in this season – I'll have to wait for the DVD to come out, which is still some time in the future, unfortunately. I envy you guys in the States and Australia for already having seen season 4 entirely – but I'll resign myself to patiently wait and write my own stories till I can watch it too…_

_Alright, sorry for rambling, I just had to get it off my chest._

_So, as usual, I cherish every single review – so please tell me what you think, if you want._

_Thanks again and take care! _


	15. Chapter 15

_So, to all you out there still reading this…here's the next chapter! Please enjoy:_

**Chapter 15**

The way to the bathroom was more than just a little arduous, which was ridiculous, considering that it was barely a couple of steps. But Dean was dead set on making it by himself. He felt Sam's and Bobby's eyes on him all the way and he had to admit that it did help to know that, should he fall, those two were going to be there in a flash to catch him.

Not that he needed it.

Just good to know.

The muscles in his calves felt like knots and needles, he knew he walked like a wooden puppet, movements all jerky and uncoordinated. It was so goddamn frustrating to think that, OK, so he might not have been the most graceful person on the face of the planet, but there never had been too many complaints. With the work they did, clumsiness was not an option.

He'd been fast, a runner, the reason he'd always been good at baseball, too. Had even made little league once and had gotten on a few different teams in high school. The first time, he'd attended about two or three trainings before a spirit had broken 5 of his ribs and his ankle and his career at that school had been ended as fast as it had begun. The same as with every other school after, so Dean had simply stopped trying after a while. But he still was a runner, could outrun Sam any day - not that that was too hard. Those freakishly long legs of his more of a hindrance than a help most of the time.

Dean remembered very vividly a time when Sam had been about 13 or 14 and had started shooting up in height like he'd been fertilized or something. He'd had no control whatsoever over his limbs during that time, had kept falling and stumbling, making an ass of himself, pretty much, in sports. But worse even was him tripping and falling over his own feet on hunts, and for almost a year Dean had been terrified that their dad would actually just abandon his little brother on the side of some dark country road in the middle of the night to fend for himself.

Fortunately, Sam had grown out of it, so to speak, and with time had regained moderate control over his body, even though he still tended to trip and stumble on an awfully regular basis, dropping things, too. But he'd learned to compensate for it and now it mostly made Dean laugh, gave him reason to tease his brother a little.

And Dean could still outrun Sam. Easily.

Just, maybe not right now.

He made it to the bathroom alright, with only a little bit of cramping and sweating, shot his roommates and part-time nurses a quick smile before closing the door on them, shutting them out and himself in effectively.

That done, he considered his next move. He really had to take a leak, only…the proper way to do this - for a man that was - wasn't going to happen. But since nobody ever needed to know…

He really felt like taking a shower to wash all that grime and filth off him, attempt to get clean again. His head felt better now, overall, just sometimes, on a fairly regular basis unfortunately, he felt like his thoughts, feelings, emotions threatened to overwhelm him once more, seizing his brain, pounding into him like a sledgehammer.

But he felt OK now.

Kinda.

Dean didn't dare look into the mirror above the sink, just splashed some water onto his face, or wanting to, at least. His hands were still so messed up, he could hardly turn on the faucet and the bandages and splints were definitely not supposed to get wet. Sam was so gonna have his ass if he had to redo them again.

Dean bent the fingers he could still use, felt them popping and crunching, but working. Rotating his wrists was hell and he opted on not doing that again for yet a while to come. His left upper arm was strapped to his torso, to prevent the shoulder from moving. Still hurt like a bitch, though.

Bad enough dislocating it, then having to pop it back in, that always hurt like a mother.

But then, being tied up the way he'd been, then wrenching it out yet again in his stupor and not being able to pop it back in right away, not cooling it and keeping it immobilized… He knew it was infected, hurt enough to be sure and while the straps helped, they didn't manage to let him forget about it completely.

It sucked. Out loud.

But it wasn't all that bad. He deserved to be in pain. At least it made him _feel_. Anything besides hatred and blind, devouring wrath. Anything besides the guilt eating him alive.

So it really wasn't all that bad, considering.

It was when he opened the door to the bedroom again that it struck him.

It wasn't anything he could really see…he hadn't wrecked the room beyond recognition, there weren't any bloody pentagrams or symbols drawn on the walls or the ceiling. The artwork had been adorning his body and nothing else, he knew that…remembered it vividly enough.

It was the smell, foremost, that halted him in mid-step, kept him from taking that last step into the room.

It smelled of sweat and blood and bile, of scented candles and smoke and herbs.

It smelled stale, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room, leaving it choking on its own evaporations.

It smelled like death.

Dean faltered, hitting the doorframe hard with his bad shoulder and his legs turned to jelly as his vision blacked out and his head filled with the noises and voices and screams… _His_ screams and words spat out like arrows, venomous and meant to inflict the uttermost damage, pain. Sam's voice, shaking a little but surprisingly strong considering all the things his own brother spat at him, soothing and telling him over and over that it was fine, that everything would be over soon, that he loved him… Loved him? How could he…after everything?

Bobby's voice chanted something in Latin, cutting him with Dean's own knife while Sam held Dean down, the sound of something cracking or breaking…a bone…one of his fingers?

Something in his mouth, on his skin, burning, burning…

Hands on him and all over him, holding him down, hurting him.

They were yelling at him, yelling at him to stop struggling, to stop fighting, please. Sam's voice suspiciously teary but for once Dean didn't feel like making fun of him for being such a girl. To be honest, he felt like he could do a little crying himself.

He knew…knew what he was doing but he was too weak to stop it, stop himself.

God, it hurt.

His shoulder was on fire, his stomach feeling like it was being sliced open from the inside out, like something tried to crawl out of him.

Like _Alien_… Now that was an imagery he didn't really need…

They were still yelling at him, but at least they were both speaking English now. Dean had never much liked Latin to start with. Those hands again, everywhere, all over, tugging, tearing, moving him up and lifting him and…

What the hell?

Why would they be lifting him?

He was tied to the freaking bed, wasn't he? They'd tied him up in the first place, why lift and move him now?

Hands clamped down on his cheeks, then something cool and wet splashed onto his face.

He was _SO_ going to give Sam hell for dipping water all over him…he was dead meat.

The water did clear his head a little, though, cleared his vision, too. He had thought that his eyes were closed because there had only been sound and touch for so long now but suddenly he realized that his eyes were indeed open. He blinked them rapidly, droplets of water fanning off his lashes and splattering over his cheeks.

Sam's face was there, suddenly so close to his own, it made him rear back automatically as he wanted to draw away, not wanting to hurt him…not again, not anymore.

Then Bobby's face came into focus, right next to his brother's.

Way to go, crowding a panicked man and deadly hunter in like that. Even though he really didn't feel all that deadly right at this moment.

He was still breathing heavily, confusion making him dizzy.

Where the hell was he?

The ceiling didn't look like their bedroom anymore. Well, it was brown alright, still different, though. Tiles…bathroom? Why the hell…

They hadn't…had they bathed him? They better have not bathed him…

Part of the ritual or not, they wouldn't have.

"Hey Dean…hey, you with us again? Come on dude, say something…?! How many fingers am I holding up?"

Sam wriggled a huge paw in front of his face, too close and moving it way too fast for even a remotely coherent person to be able to count the fingers on it, certainly impossible for someone freshly exorcised, slightly feverish and highly confused to do it. The thing was, Dean knew, though. He knew how many fingers because Sam would always, always go for four. Ever since he was little and he'd do this for fun every morning when jumping on Dean's bed, waking him up for school, waving four chubby fingers in front of his face, demanding to know: "How many Dean? How many fingers 'm I holdin' up?

So, a no-brainer, really.

But him being able to remember that kind of served to prove that he wasn't quite as bad off, right?

"Four." He rasped out, then added as an afterthought: "Jerk"

That at least made Sam smile. Bobby too and his scruffy face disappeared from Dean's line of vision for a second.

"Ok, so now that we've determined that your head is not worse off than usual, what do you say if we'll get your sorry ass off the floor and back to bed? Might be a bit more comfortable than crashing here on the bathroom floor…"

He might have a point there.

"You bathe me?" Dean rasped, raising his eyebrow for good measure.

The look of confusion on Sam's face was priceless, to say the least. Talk about a MasterCard moment. Even though he did pay a little bit when four strong hands helped him to his feet and half carried him back into the bedroom.

That smell again. That was when it hit him…again. The smell had triggered this…flashback…whatever.

Fuck.

"You can very well bathe your skinny ass yourself. Bad enough we've had to haul it up off the floor in the first place." Bobby said, voice gruff and soft and full of affection.

Dean was really glad he was here, Sam could use the help. Besides, it was good to hear something other than teary and choked up every once in a while.

"Ok…your loss…" Dean managed to quip, before his breath ran out again.

They managed to hoist him onto the bed, which smelled even worse of the days past than the rest of the room did - it almost made Dean nauseous. He squeezed his eyes shut to suppress the urge to puke.

"Hey…you alright? What's wrong? You need anything?"

Sam again, all worried.

Dean managed to open his eyes and squint up at his little brother.

"'m fine, Sammy…"

It was way too easy to lie to Sam.

"Yeah, right…"

And somehow Sam had way too little trouble looking right through him. Psychic brother or not, it really was pretty darn embarrassing.

"What the hell happened?"

That was Bobby again, handing him a bottle of something sweet, a soda, helping him hold onto it while drinking.

Yeah, what exactly happened? Damned if he knew. The smell had triggered something, a repressed memory maybe - or not all that repressed after all. One thing he knew, though, it hadn't been pleasant. And he didn't want them to worry about him even more. But there was only one way to prevent this from happening again.

Sam had started to massage his calves…working strong fingers in soothing circles over knotted and cramped up muscles. At first it felt terrible, and that was just the physical feeling, no need to delve any deeper into the mental part of it all. But after a while Dean started to loosen up a bit. Damn. He might have sighed a little. Sam would make a damn fine masseuse. Probably not the time to tell him, though.

"Dean…you remember what happened?"

Oh yeah, almost forgot.

He tried to push himself up, felt his face heat up with the sudden vertigo that gripped him, weakly pushed against Bobby's hands holding him back and pushed off the bed, stumbling right into Sam's chest. His face got even hotter as he realized that he wasn't going to make it.

Sam's arms came around his shoulders again, held him up and helped him ease back down, pressing a hand to his forehead, brows furrowing at the heat Dean was sure was wafting off him like a furnace. He might have a slight fever there…it sure felt like it. And he never did good with fevers. Always got a little…confused, even if it was really very low. Right now he felt like burning up and freezing to death at the same time. So, part of that confusion had to come from that, then.

In the end Dean relented, let Sam push him back, accepting Bobby's help to pull the blanket up to his chin when a violent shiver raked through him. His hands were almost useless, fingers refusing to bend, muscles in his biceps and forearm shaking with feverish chills while he was sweating like he was going to melt into the damp mattress.

But he needed to talk to Sam, needed them to understand…there was no way, no way…

He searched for Sam's eyes, held on to them once he found them. One of his mangled hands managed to twist into Sam's shirt, somehow holding on, pulling his brother closer so he'd hear.

He tried not to sound as pitiful as he felt, not quite as desperate. But in the end it didn't really matter. He needed to get his message across. And if that was what it took, then so be it. He could always blame it on the fever, in case he needed to.

"Sam…we need to…I want you to…you gotta help me leave. We have to get out of here…out…just get the car…drive us…wherever."

Sam's face fell a little, but at least he managed not to look at Bobby again, didn't break eye-contact. Good, because Dean really didn't think he'd be able to hold his eyes open if Sam looked away right now. And he didn't want to fall asleep or unconscious or whatever without getting this out. He didn't care about what happened after.

"Dean…you need to get better first, alright? I know you wanna leave but you need to rest now, get better. You still have a fever and your muscles are all locked and cramped. Just a couple of days and then we are on our way, alright?"

Sam's voice was low and soothing, a timbre that instantly made Dean relax, even though he didn't want to. He didn't. He wanted to leave, wanted to make Sam see how important it was that they leave. It was almost like that thing, the Ragazara, was still in the room, still lurking in the dark corner, in the closet, underneath the bed. And there was no .45 to kill it, no ring of salt or devil's trap to keep it away from him, to keep him safe. To keep _them_ safe.

He knew it was irrational, that there was nothing of that thing left save the remnants of the past days, the hours spent trapped inside his own head and body, inside his own fury. But be it irrational or not, he wanted, needed to get out. He knew he'd be better then, _feel_ better. He'd do anything, sleep in the Impala for days if necessary, even though he'd really rather settle for another motel-room, and be it just a town over. Preferably a couple of states but he'd take what he could get. And he'd take whatever pain would be throw his way and relish it, delve into it if it managed to carry him away from this hellhole.

Away from the place where he'd been willing to jump his own brother, hurt him, kill him.

"No, Sam…you don't…you don't understand. I need…we need to get out of here…just, just another place, down the street or something…just get me out…please…"

It was the closest he'd come, ever, to begging his brother to do something for him.

Even when Sam had gone off to Stanford, Dean had never begged him to stay. Even though he'd felt like it, even though he'd done all the begging and pleading he'd ever done, only not out in the open, not for anyone to hear. He'd let him go, had let him go because it had been what Sam had wanted. And Dean had been conditioned, all his life, to give the kid what he wanted. So that had been that. Not the smartest move he'd ever made, sure, but he hadn't been able to shed his own pride then.

If he'd felt as if he could have taken one step out of this room without face-planting before he'd even reached the Impala, he'd have done it, dragged Sam and Bobby with him, _make_ them understand. Now, all he had left was his power of persuasion and the trust that his brother would understand…would use those psychic powers of his or simply his brotherly fine-tuning or whatever it was they shared to understand what Dean was trying to tell without him having to expose himself too much.

Because he really didn't need any more humiliation than he'd already experienced.

Sam's eyes never left Dean's, never wavered. There was nothing much left to be said, and Dean hoped with all his might that Sam got it right. They locked eyes for minutes, it seemed, the air in the room still, nothing else existing but them…nothing but that bond that didn't seem to be able to shatter, no matter what, not even after all this… Then Sam nodded, once, no-nonsense, knowing. Dean felt himself fall then, the relief so big, it felt like a fucking mountain lifting off his shoulders with just this tiny nod of the shaggy head.

No words needed, and it was solely for the benefit of Bobby, Dean knew, that Sam voiced what they'd managed to get across in silent understanding.

"Alright…sure. We'll go. You get some rest and Bobby and I pack everything, get us ready. We'll leave Dean…no problem. We'll get you out of here."

Dean didn't care anymore then, as he let his fingers let go of Sam's shirt, didn't care that his eyes fell shut and he felt himself fall into a somewhat fitful fever-clouded dream. He trusted Sam absolutely, unconditionally. He'd explain to Bobby, get them out, get them to safety.

That was all that mattered.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Sam didn't explain to Bobby, he just started packing their things, throwing clothes and books and weapons into their duffel bags without another word.

Bobby was left dumbstruck for a second.

He knew that there was something, some kind of connection between those two that he'd never be able to grasp, no matter how hard he tried, but it was more than apparent to him that Dean was not up to travelling yet. The exorcism had wreaked havoc on his body and mind, the fever he'd been developing steadily over the last couple of hours or so sure enough proof if nothing else was.

He'd thought that Sam was aware of the importance for them to stay put, to not strain Dean any further, to let him settle back down.

Sure, Dean had begged him to leave, had seemed desperate enough, too, but that was no surprise, really.

Dean never had been too good with a fever…had proven that more than impressively on more occasions than Bobby could remember in the past.

He'd either fight nails and teeth, smashing furniture in a futile attempt to either fend off unseen attackers or curl in on himself like a bear going into hibernation. Unfortunately, the first option was the more regular one – and again Bobby would have been able to recount more than one time in his past when he'd had replace lamps and nightstands and chairs in the boys rooms when Dean had once again tried to fight off vampires and werewolves that existed in his head only, hurling objects at them in order to keep them away and his little brother safe.

But right now Dean didn't even possess the strength to really, seriously push it, his body too worn out to put up much of a fight anymore. And Bobby didn't think it wise to drag him off to god knew where just yet. The drive, even be it in his beloved car, too much of a strain on his overused muscles, his head, his fevered body.

"Uhm, Sam. Why don't you slow down there for a second and talk to me, will ya? What's this all about? I really think we should stay here for another day at least, make sure his fever goes down, see that he can hold anything down before we go driving him all across country back to my place…"

Because, as sure as anything, that was the plan. Not only that they needed to give Bobby a ride back home, but his place the only home the boys knew now, the only place for them to be safe enough for any long enough period of time to get past this.

Sam barely halted in his work, just shot Bobby a quick look, eyes deep and dark and _tired_ yet unstoppable. Bobby knew better than to stand in Sam's way when he got like that. The only one attempting to do that would be Dean, him probably being the only one Sam wouldn't just walk right through, too.

"You heard him, Bobby. He wants out. I really think we should…you know, I think it's the room making him…nervous. He begged me, Bobby. I think…we should do this, you know? Get out of here and go someplace else. Just a couple of towns over, just to give us some…distance I guess. He needs that so I'm going to give that to him…"

Finally he stopped moving, stopped and looked at Bobby directly, his eyes almost as unfocused as Dean's, looking so much like a lost puppy. And if it hadn't been for the still painfully erect posture, his back straight, shoulders squared in order to, Bobby suspected he wouldn't have been able to keep himself upright at all anymore. And Bobby be damned, but he knew then…knew that those two needed to get out of this room, knew why, too.

Damn those boys and the firm grip they had on Bobby's heart. Anyone else he'd have just told off, would have told to get a grip and suck it up.

But those two…

Bobby shook his head, took a hold of the brim of his ball cap, lifting it and scratching an imaginary itch there before pulling it back down, sighing.

"How the hell are we going to get him out of here?" he asked, flipping his chin over at Dean's slightly restless form on the bed, moaning a little in his sleep, forehead pulled into a never ceasing frown, lips pressed into a thin line and nostrils flaring. There was no way the kid was going to walk out of here by himself, not right now.

Sam looked over at his brother, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly as he took in his appearance as if seeing him for the first time.

'_Well, look in a mirror there, Sam, you don't look all that good there yourself', _Bobby thought.

Neither of them did. Those last three, no, already four days of constant alert, constant worry…it had taken its toll on all of them. Bobby didn't feel all that wonderful himself, to be honest. He could really use some sleep, and some halfway decent food, too. Not that he'd be likely to get that… only, maybe he could give Susan a call once they made it back to his place, she'd be over at his place in a flash, bring him a whole bucket full of lasagne if she knew that the boys were there as well. She'd always loved them, loved to fatten them up whenever they were there when she brought by her food. Despite everything Bobby told both Dean and Sam whenever they teased him about her, bringing him food and all…he really liked her. Not that he'd ever settle down with her or something, but a little company now and then certainly wasn't the worst thing for an old man, all alone…

Well, that was somewhat besides the point, right now.

Sam ran a hand over his face, tugging at his bottom lip a little, a gesture so much like Dean, it made Bobby smile. Dean, he knew that, had it from his father, so some things did pass down through generations, after all.

"I don't care…he needs to leave…me too, I guess. I'll carry him if that's what it takes."

His eyes pleaded for Bobby to understand, to go with him on this or simply trust him, but he really needn't have…Bobby knew. And he was going to not only play along with it, he was going to carry them both, if necessary. They deserved to be taken care off every once in a while.

"Alright then, why don't I help you pack and then we wake sleeping beauty there and see if he can at least help us drag his pretty ass out of here, let him do some of the work himself - or else he might get used to us mothering him and might find that he actually likes it…"

Sam smiled at that, like Bobby had known he would. Giving the kid a little of his brother's medicine was a sure enough way to lighten the mood a bit. Dean's bantering, as much as it grated on their nerves sometimes was always a sure enough way to ease them up a bit.

"Let's do that then." Bobby agreed and together they cleared away every last trace of them ever being in this room, leaving it immaculate save for the sweat soaked and tangled sheets when they finally left.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

tbc

_AN:_

_I hope I'm not trying you too much here…I know it's a long story and not it's now drawing to an end…but there are still some things left to be said. I don't want to loose any readers over this, but I spent so much time and thought developing this story (yeah, I know…it's sad, but it's the best I could come up with), and I can't just cut it off now. _

_Thanks to all you guys encouraging me and reading and reviewing continuously – and to all that put it on alert, I hope you're not disappointed._

_So, I'm off to London in…alright, I'll have to leave in about 30 minutes, so this it's just a quick thank you again and please know that every single review is greatly cherished!_

_Hope to see ya all next week with the next chapter!_

_Take care!_


	16. Chapter 16

**From this dark room**

**Chapter 16**

It couldn't be comfortable, not by a long shot, but to give him credit, Dean didn't complained even once. Not consciously - not while awake at least.

It was bad enough the way it was.

He'd walked out of the room by himself, had fought it and pushed himself with all that he had left and made it out the door, both Sam and Bobby walking close to him, helping him to stay upright without actually touching. He'd been barely out the door when he'd slumped, Sam right there to catch him, slinging his right arm over his shoulder, having to walk a little bent over because of the difference in height. Any other day Sam would have treasured that moment for later use but right then it hadn't even registered.

Sam had kept Bobby at a distance, for whatever reason, had half carried his brother himself, as if it was something that he had to do, that _they_ had to do by themselves. They'd gone into that room together, they'd make it out the same way. Bobby was close by, Sam could feel his eyes boring into his back, then he pushed past them to open the back door of the Impala for Sam. He helped him settle Dean more or less comfortably into the backseat, scooting him over until he lay half slumped on the seat, shivering slightly despite the relatively warm weather…unusually so for the middle of April in Massachusetts.

A shiver racked through Dean's body as he tried to keep himself upright, trying to angle his body so he wouldn't need to fight too hard to stay upright, wedging himself into the corner between seat and door, head sinking back against the leather, soft from use. The same seat that both he and Sam had spent most of their childhood on, sleeping there countless nights, riding endless miles, hours and hours, days and weeks wedged in the backseat, driving each other and their dad insane with boredom. Still the original backseat, or parts of it at least, even though almost destroyed in the accident, the one that had in the end taken so much more from them than they ever thought possible.

Sam stilled, hands on the seat, feeling it, feeling everything, like a flashback… The seat almost stained beyond recognition with his brother's blood, ripped to shreds in places by broken glass and twisted metal.

He shuddered, head spinning. Sam could see Dean's eyes still, right before the accident, staring at him through the rearview mirror from the backseat, already dull and glazed over with pain and blood loss, a lazy trail of blood cutting his face in two. Still looking at him, still fighting but waning fast. His beaten body wedged into the corner of the seat, just like he lay there right now…just like now.

Sam fought the urge to grab Dean, pull him out and away from the car - anything to erase the image, the memories from that day. He wanted to drag his brother out of there, as far away as possible, somewhere safe. Only, there was no place safe for them anymore, was there? The car their only home, really, as far back as Sam could remember.

Dean loved that car with a vengeance that was almost comical at times, but it went way deeper than just a simple obsession with the classic vehicle. It was the only constant in both their lives, the only constant Dean had ever accepted, besides Sam and their dad, that was. The car his only home after their house burned down, leaving him with a brother and father to take care of, to care for.

The Impala was a beautiful car, to be sure, far more than just a means of transportation. Practical too, with its huge trunk and wide seats and endless nooks and crannies to hide stuff in, but there had been more than one time when Sam had cursed her for being too suspicious, too obvious. In their line of work, with the lives they led, that could be problematic at times, and Dean knew that too. And still he'd never given up on her.

Just like Dean had never given up on Sam.

If anything, the car was the one place his brother felt safe with, always. The most intimate moments Sam could remember having with his brother, the closest Dean had ever come to opening up to him, baring his soul, lowering the walls and letting Sam in, had been in or around this car.

Dean telling him about how much he still missed their mom, their dad. That moment on the side of the road when Dean had confessed to knowing that their dad had given his life for Dean's still far too vivid in Sam's mind…his brother so vulnerable and devastated. But he'd trusted Sam, for a very brief and rare moment, trusting him with his heart and soul, telling him without expecting him to make it alright but simply opening up to him.

And, in a way, the Impala had protected them, had pretty much been twisted and mangled beyond recognition when that semi had hit her, her body broken almost beyond repair. Almost. So much like Dean, it was almost breathtaking. But Sam hadn't given up on her, had fought for her - just like he hadn't been willing to give up on Dean. And they'd made it, in the end, hadn't they? Not easy, not fast, not anything but a heartbreaking and tedious process, but they'd made it in the end. All of them. Well, almost all of them.

The Impala had seen it all, pretty much, so many of the tears and laughter, the heartache and joy of their lives. She'd seen them through so much, had carried them so many countless miles. Funny, how Sam thought he got it, now of all times, after so many years spent in that car, with his brother, that now he'd finally get it. All those times he'd made fun of Dean for treating her…_her_ (now he was calling it a _her_ too!)…like another family member. Because she was. Kinda. And he'd be damned if he ever told anybody that, but he really thought that she was. So many of Sam's memories involved that car, he'd never even realized it.

Seeing Dean now, hunched over and clearly ill, exhausted and hurting and in no condition to go anywhere, as he immediately loosened up, imperceptibly so, but loud and clear for Sam to see… It made Sam's heart ache and jump with relief at the same time.

"Sam…?"

Bobby's hand on his shoulder made Sam jump, hitting the back of his head against the doorframe. He cursed, bit his lips, remembering the thankfulness he'd felt just two seconds ago – but it was all but gone now when thinking how much easier he'd be able to climb in and out of, say, a truck or something.

"Damn…yeah, Bobby. I'm fine…sorry. Be right with you."

Dean had opened his eyes at his brother's exclamation of pain, dragged a worried gaze over to him. His eyes were far too bright, the green unfocused yet blazing at the same time.

"You hurt?" he rasped out, then cleared his throat and asked again, a little stronger this time.

"You alright? Want me to drive?"

Dean tugged his lips into a lopsided smile that fell again quickly - but that didn't make it any less honest.

"Yeah, right. Why don't you? Or, maybe you shouldn't, because I do actually cherish my life, and yours, and Bobby's. So I guess I'll settle for letting Bobby drive. I promised him to. It was the only way I could get him to come and help us out, you know?"

Sam heard Bobby grumble something behind his back, something that sounded like _one hell of a bad deal_ or something the like and was glad to see Dean trying to attempt to roll his eyes at that. Failing with a grimace and a slight groan, but who cared. It was the thought that counted.

"Tell him not to wreck her…or we're stuck at his place…for longer than he'll like…"

Another grumble and groan from Bobby and Sam laughed a little and winked at Dean.

"I think that did it, Dean. There's nothing but a little positive reinforcement. You alright here, want me to get you a blanket…? We could snatch one from the room…a pillow, too. You'll be more comfortable…"

He didn't get to finish the sentence.

"No…nothing, nothing Sam. 'm fine."

The look in his eyes told Sam all he needed to know. Dean, who was always so good in keeping his emotions in check yet always so fucking wide open when he had a fever, suddenly not able to keep it all bottled up anymore. The disgust of everything having to do with that room, with everything that had gone down there, screaming loud and clear from him, he seemed almost panicked. They'd take nothing from that room with them, leave it all behind. Maybe they could also leave behind the guilt then, the one that was so obviously nagging at Dean, that was nibbling those tiny pieces off of his already ravished shell.

Sam wished with all his heart that it would be as easy as that.

He went around the car, opening the trunk and roaming around amidst their duffels and equipment until he found one of their old blankets and a bunched up pillow, a faded Navajo-design adorning the worn soft fabric. They'd once snatched it from one of those badly done theme-motels down in Albuquerque, had kept it for situations just like this.

He went back to the door on Dean's side, waiting until his brother had pushed away from the door until he opened it, helped him to lean forward and draped the blanket over his shoulders. Dean only protested weakly and without much steam while Sam wedged the pillow between his way too hot cheek and the doorframe before closing the door and once more rounding the car to get to the passenger side. Bobby got behind the wheel, turned on the engine.

Sam thought he heard Dean sigh as the car came to life, the rumbling of the engine soothing his own nerves, somehow, relaxing him almost instantly.

So yeah, maybe he got it, finally. The feeling of _home_, of family and security. Next to Dean, the Impala was the only thing to tie those feelings to.

It certainly had never been easy to come by for them. Or at least Sam had thought so. But maybe it had all been right before his eyes all this time, and he's just been searching so hard that he'd overlooked the obvious. All his family, all his security right here, within a couple of feet from him, within easy reach. Now he just needed to make sure that he didn't lose that again, needed to make sure that Dean was getting better, made it through this alright. Then they could tackle almost anything.

Sounded good enough for him.

Sounded like a plan.

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Dean woke when the engine of his car was killed, bathing the interior in silence.

He turned his head deeper into the pillow that smelled so strangely of _home_ now, after, what, three days on the road, it was almost hysterical. The comfort and warmth and security the mangy pillow could provide… Dean inhaled the scent deeply, opted that maybe, if he just stayed quiet and didn't let Bobby and Sam know that he was awake, they'd just let him sleep a little longer.

He knew he should feel ashamed of himself, for being so weak and willing to just stay down and sleep - it wasn't as if he hadn't slept his fair share over the past days on the road. Bobby had stopped only for gas and food during the day, pulling into a variation of fairly nice motels pretty early every night but neither he nor Sam had argued. Dean had been more than content to sleep wherever, as long as he could just sleep, and Sam probably was more than thankful for the opportunity to stretch his long legs and not be folded up in the car any longer than necessary.

As far as Dean could tell, the drive had been quiet. Not that he had been aware of much throughout, besides the occasional low murmured conversation wafting back towards where he was lying in the backseat, the tuned down music… Some country station from what he could make out, but he didn't even have the energy to give Bobby hell for that. That or, once, a soft-rock station, no doubt Sam's work as the kid took turns at the wheel.

Dean's muscles didn't really appreciate being wedged up in the car for such a long time, to be honest, and he recently had come to cherish the benefits of a hot bath, even though Bobby had only managed to book a room with a tub once so far. The warmth and the soothing enshrouding safety of the water helped to loose his cramped up muscles a great deal. And yeah, he already felt better, the fever all but gone, even though he still could feel the remnants of it clinging to his muddled brain and tired body. It was a small miracle, considering that hours and hours in a car were not the best way to give the body time to recupe, but in the end the car was the closest he'd ever come to having a home, really, and home made you heal best, right?

That and having his brother and Bobby there by his side. Kind of a weird family, he had to admit that, but one heck of one at that.

When he woke up now he was lying down, on his right side, his bad shoulder freed of the pressure of leaning against the door, his head bedded on something soft.

Unconsciously he inhaled again, trying to figure out if he could somehow turn around without either hurting himself or alerting his two companions that he was indeed awake.

A hand suddenly touched his cheek, a warm palm splaying softly against his forehead and within a second he knew why the pillow had felt so familiar.

It was Sam. Sam's hand on his face, checking for a fever, most likely, probably Sam's lap his head was resting on, too.

Oh god, now this was starting to get a little more than what Dean thought he could handle. Not that it felt all that bad… His heart clenched at the memory of what he'd done and said, all those things that would have been enough to drive anybody away, surely. How could Sam still stay, could still do this?

Dean didn't dare open his eyes for fear of what he might find when he did.

Those eyes again, no doubt, deep and hazel and just _Sam_. Eyes that had been watching him, had been looking up at him all his life.

Eyes that had been looking up at him for a long time until…until… Yeah, until what had happened, exactly?

Because Dean was pretty sure that it had stopped long ago, before Sam had actually grown up to be too tall to physically do that looking up thing anymore.

Sam was smart, too smart for his own good sometimes, so most likely the kid had just figured out what took others a little longer to realize… that Dean was nothing like the person he'd like to be, that he'd want others to see him as.

He was a failure, pretty much. Maybe that was too harsh a word for it, but that didn't make it any less true in the end. Because come on, didn't this here right now prove this point more impressively than anything?

He groaned, deep in his chest, hoping that no sound made it past his outer shell, out in the open for anyone to hear.

Apparently, the trademark Winchester luck held out, though, because sure enough the hand on his forehead suddenly shifted, cradling his cheek again, cupping his chin to turn his head upwards a little. He craved that touch, craved the feeling of love and home and security it brought but at the same time he knew that he had no right. There was no way for him to be allowed to be weak now. Not now, not ever.

But especially not now.

It almost physically hurt to break the contact, to turn his head away and push upwards, his eyes opened to barely slits as he sat up a little, felt his brother's hands aiding him reluctantly, yet strong and reassuringly.

"Easy there, don't bump your head or something. Don't need another hit on the head to add to your problems right now…" The slightly teasing yet unabashedly worried tone of Sam's voice almost cut Dean to the core.

"I'm fine…got it. I got it."

He felt Bobby's eyes through the rearview mirror, Sam's next to him, too, as they no doubt watched him for any sign that he was not fine, not alright. Which he wasn't, clearly. But they'd know it to be even worse if he didn't even try to pretend, so he chose to keep up the act he'd spent years and years to perfect.

"Why are you sitting back here…shouldn't you be riding shotgun…make sure he doesn't wreck my baby?"

A huff and mumbled answer to his question from the driver's seat was ignored by both brothers as Sam watched Dean through carefully observant eyes, seizing him up and Dean couldn't help but turn his eyes away from the imploring gaze, avert them just a little so he could look at Sam without really looking, to see him without being seen. It was hard work, somehow he had the feeling that he wasn't entirely on top of his game, that Sam had way too little problem to see right through him and way beyond.

"You weren't sleeping well… I just…your legs cramped again, so I kneaded out the knots. You fell asleep on…my lap - so I figured… You calmed down and fell asleep again, so I stayed."

Sam's eyes challenged him to say something, anything cocky to that, but try as he might, Dean couldn't come up with one good reply that would somehow stay within the reasonable barriers of sanity so he chose, for once, to say nothing at all. Still avoiding eye-contact, just to make sure.

"We there yet?"

"Yep, just rolled up on the red carpet. You about ready to get out and settled in or would you rather sleep here for the rest of the night?" Bobby grumbled good naturedly from the front seat.

Dean pulled a face which at least made both of his companions smile a little.

"Think I might settle for the sofa or something…my girls' been taking care of us for so long now, think she might appreciate the break." Dean patted the Impala's seat a little for emphasis.

That made Sam roll his eyes, but his brother finally grabbed the pillow, throwing it carelessly to the floor, helping Dean disentangle himself from the tattered blanket and discarding of it in a similar way.

Dean heard the distinct sound of the driver's door creaking as Bobby exited the car, then the groan of the trunk being opened as he no doubt got their stuff out and carried it into the house. It was already dark out, Dean realized only now, probably not really late but dark nonetheless and even though he'd just slept for at least a couple of hours straight he could already feel the pull of sleep weighing down his eyelids, could almost hear that bed that had been his for pretty much as long as he could think call out to him.

How the hell could he be so fucking weak?

Dean leaned away from Sam, reached for the door handle but halting in the movement as his back protested the change in position with a painful twinge and pull across his shoulder blades. God, he hated his muscles right now. All that work out and training and digging and this was what he got for his efforts? They took the first chance they got and turned against him like that?

He might have hissed a little as his back muscles seized when he turned, the way his brother's head snapped towards him all of a sudden a sure give away that he hadn't been able to hold it in. Sam's face got all worried and _motherly_ in the beat of a second. It almost made Dean laugh. If he'd felt like laughing. Which he didn't.

Besides, it was over as fast as it had come, which was a huge improvement already. While he still wasn't up to chasing ghosts or digging up graves right this minute, he most definitely was on the best way. Give him another day or two and he'd be as good as new. Or go down pretending.

Sam's eyes were still on him, his door half open but frozen in the act. Figured. A few seconds later and Dean might have slipped by undetected.

"'m fine, Sammy. Quit looking at me like that, gives me the creeps."

"You up to walking in or you want me to give me a hand?"

The question was so natural, so noncommittal that Dean almost answered back to him honestly then. Almost.

"Yeah, why don't you. You could carry me over the threshold…only that would make you the groom, and that somehow wouldn't be right, Samantha…"

Sam's face alternated between pissed and amused, settling on the latter at last.

"Fine, have it your way. We'll be waiting for you inside. Don't be too long or the food'll get cold."

And with that Sam was out of the car and disappeared into the house a second later.

Leaving Dean to make his way up the steps of the front porch himself, to step into the dimly lit kitchen just a minute later, finding the table haphazardly set with mismatching plates and glasses, three bottles of soda and some cartons of take out opened and laid out for grabs.

The scene was so…_homey…_it made Dean stop in his tracks for just a second…just long enough to catch his breath again, just till both Bobby and Sam had realized he'd come in finally, looking up at him, Bobby indicating a chair for him to sit in.

"We picked up some Chinese on our way through town…dig in before it get's cold."

Dean smirked, but then discovered to his own surprise that he indeed _was_ hungry. Just a little bit. But for the first time in days he felt like he might actually enjoy eating again. Which was a big step. And it might save him from some serious worried looks and even more serious _hovering_ and more closeness than he was willing to put up with at the moment. Space the only thing acceptable right now.

After those days in the Impala. After hours spent tied to a bed…

After days fighting himself to spare Sammy.

He found himself walking over to the offered chair, sinking down even though sitting was probably the last thing on his mind right now. His butt about as flat as a pancake. That bed looked more and more promising by the minute.

God, he was so screwed up.

He might have gotten rid of the Ragazara, might have managed to escape the room that held him captive for days on end – Dean just wasn't all too sure that he'd ever completely rid himself of the guilt that was eating him alive from the inside out.

XxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Tbc

_AN:_

_Thanks again for all the wonderful reviews – I hope I answered all of them. I can't believe all the support I'm getting even though I'm clearly a pain in the ass, being so damn insecure and whining all the time. So thanks, really, you don't have to, that's why I appreciate it even more!_

_Thanks a__lso to OcherMe for beta-ing and listening to me going on an on and on…and again I absolutely love those tiny little comments that you put in every once in a while – they make me lighten up like you wouldn't believe!_

_London was great by the way – didn't even have much rain (yay!) and yay again, because I got to buy 'My bloody Valentine' on DVD!! I'm going to watch it tonight and drool over it just a little (but among my dog and two cats, who drool like crazy when I'm just looking at them, nobody will notice, I hope ;-))!_

_So, a chapter with not a lot of action, I know…but again I think that it's important for the story – at least from my point of view. I hope you agree and come back for the next one!_

_Please tell me what you think- I cherish ever single review (but pleeeease don't be too harsh;-))_

_Alright, so if you want to, and I sure hope you do – till next week!_

_Take care!_


	17. Chapter 17

_Ohhhkay - finally ff seems to be working again - I hope. I couldn't post saturday or sunday, hence the delay - hope y'all forgive me!_

_Anyways, here's the next chapter, if you want to read!_

**From this dark room **

**Chapter 17**

It always took Dean so much longer to settle in than Sam. Whenever the boys arrived, either brought by their dad when they were still kids, or later when hunting alone, it would always be the same.

Sam would come, step inside the house and be there, be at home and at ease.

He'd be slumped in a chair or on one of the old stuffed sofas, sometimes even crouched on the floor, back against the wall, some book or other perched on his knees, immersed in research or simply pleasure. Sam would be able to gear down within minutes, find his new rhythm, settle down. He'd read, watch some TV or simply roam around the house or the yard, keeping Bobby company whenever he didn't find anything else to do, or he thought he owed it to the seasoned hunter…

When they were still kids, on the couple of occasions that John didn't just drop the boys off and be on his way, but actually stayed along with them for a couple of days, once even weeks, John would get upset with Sam on a regular basis. He'd search for his youngest, call out for him, not getting an answer for the kid would be too immersed in his own world.

While it annoyed John to no end, Bobby couldn't have been happier. He never had kids, sure as hell was not going to have any of his own anymore - that train had long since left the station. The Winchester boys were the closest he got to family. It warmed his heart to see Sam come in the door and instantly feel at home at his place, filled him with a longing he'd never had before he'd met those boys.

It made Bobby regret never having tackled that project when there had still been time. Or he thought that there was, at least- but then again, whatever would have come of a kid with the life he was leading now…close to a hermit it was, Sam and Dean about the only ones dragging his ass out of here anymore.

Well, he wasn't going to go there.

But as easy as it had been with Sam - it had always been different with Dean.

When the boys arrived, both would first settle into their room and put away their meagre belongings. They had a closet and even their own little bathroom and a table and chairs. Sam had once put up a poster on the wall next to the door and Bobby had never bothered to take it down again.

This was the closest they got to having a home, the one constant place in their lives – apart from each other.

While Sam embraced that, Dean withdrew.

The first couple of days he'd spent as little time as possible in the house. While Sam took over the whole damn household, Dean would roam the yard, hardly ever stopping, it seemed. He'd pick at some of the old carcasses of various cars stranded around the property, pick up tools and put them places that Bobby would never think to look. Sometimes, days or weeks after the boys had left, the house silent and lonely again, Bobby'd find a wrench underneath a pile of old rags in the laundry room, a hammer underneath Dean's bed, a couple of nuts and bolts in the cupboard next to the refrigerator.

Dean would spent hours with the dogs, watchdogs they were supposed to be but after a couple of days spent with the middle Winchester they'd drop to lie on their backs, legs sticking into the air, demanding with noisy grunts and groans to be scratched on their bellies whenever anyone passed them by.

They'd follow Dean around everywhere, even inside the house. One time Dean had actually taken them off their chains to take them onto the street for a walk - which had promptly led to a fierce and bloody dogfight when they encountered another dog on their way. Dean had had to get about 15 stitches in his right arm back then, for he had thought it necessary to try to break up the fight between two raging Rottweilers, trying to protect Bobby's dog who probably would have won the fight anyway.

When the weather had been bad and Bobby had actually succeeded in getting Dean inside, it had been even worse. The kid hardly ever sat still, picking up books, leaving them open on whichever available surface he could find, forgotten within minutes. He'd turn on music, _his_ music, way too loud until both Sam and Bobby complained long and loud enough for Dean to turn it off, grumbling and bitching under his breath, going off to find something else to do.

By day two, three the latest, Bobby would be close to grabbing the kid and forcefully restrain him, shackle him to the damn table, knock him unconscious and sedate him for a while.

Bobby'd find things to do for Dean, gave him tasks to tackle, something, anything to help him settle down, find some peace. He'd let him fix one of the cars, teaching him how to do it in the first place, letting Dean work on one himself later on. Bobby would have Dean clean and put away the tools, stack the tires, polish the chrome bumpers of his old truck until they sparkled.

He'd have Dean rearrange the whole tool-shed during one visit, had him clean out the garage, wash all the dirty oil-rags, even but Dean never complained once. He'd even cleaned up the kitchen, cooked for them a couple of times, did their laundry. Things he'd never do under normal circumstances, not without much bitching and protesting and whining, at least.

Bobby knew it had nothing to do with Dean not wanting to be here, knew it didn't mean he didn't love it, even. He knew that to Dean, this was as much of a home as it was to Sam.

He just had a harder time accepting it.

It broke Bobby's heart to see Dean like this, the strong, confident young man he usually was reduced to an insecure, nervous kid, unable to sit still, even in sleep jittery and jumpy, his legs bouncing almost imperceptibly whenever he was forced to sit still.

Bobby knew that Dean liked him, loved him even, accepted him as a second father, almost. Dean trusted Bobby, completely and with all his heart. He would do anything for him, would drive across the whole damn country to help Bobby on the simplest of hunts. Next to Sam and his father, Bobby was the most important person in Dean's life.

Bobby knew all that.

The problem was, that to Dean, accepting any place as home felt like betrayal. It was too hard for him to accept it, to let himself feel at home and comfortable and safe here because in his eyes that would have been as if accepting the fact that he'd moved on. As if he stabbed his mom in the back somehow by accepting this…feeling of _home_ anywhere else but where it rightfully belonged.

Because most of his life, Dean hadn't had a home, not a permanent one. No one beyond his father, his brother. His home being the only two people that had been a constant throughout everything. He'd had four years, four years of a _real _family, of home, before it had all been taken away. Since then, life had been a constant struggle, had been a life on the move, on the run even.

As much as Dean wanted to let go, wanted to let his guard down and delve into the warmth and safety Bobby provided him with, it took everything out of the young hunter to make himself accept it.

Contrary to his brother, Dean still remembered. Still remembered life before the fire. Life as it should have been, should still be. At the same time that Sam greedily took this feeling of home and made it his own, craving the normalcy he'd never really known, Dean fought the urge to get up and run away from the life he wanted more than anything but had spent an eternity trying to forget. He'd spent twenty-something years on the road now, never staying anywhere longer than a couple of months at the most. He never allowed himself to get settled in, to make friends even. It would be too painful to let it all go again. And Dean knew that he would have to let go, eventually.

Since their dad had died, Dean fought even harder. Fought harder to fit in while at the same time had an even harder time doing it, apparently. Maybe now he felt like he was not only betraying his mom, but his dad as well… but if anything, John's death had brought the boys even closer than before. They'd always been inseparable, but now they were tuned into each other to an extend that left Bobby speechless at times.

And finally Sam seemed to pick up on his brother's difficulties as well.

Bobby was glad for the support because now they could both work on making Dean feel welcome, making him feel _right_.

Now more than ever it was important for Dean to feel safe and cared for.

They needed to regroup and find their rhythm again, a place where they could let their guards down and open up to each other without risking exposure to anything else - without having to constantly watch their backs.

Bobby knew that they needed to make Dean talk, even though it was more than clear that the kid would fight them with his usual stoicism and attempted nonchalance. But it was so fucking obvious that he was everything but alright – even to Dean himself - that he wouldn't be able to pretend for long.

Sam and Bobby just had to be careful how to _persuade_ Dean, how to coax him out of his shell.

But in the end Dean stood no chance against his little brother – and Bobby suspected that Dean was more aware of this than he'd ever be willing to admit.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

Bobby came back from the junkyard sometime in the afternoon, his eyes automatically scanning the cars he passed on his way to the house, then the front porch when he didn't catch sight of either Dean or Sam anywhere. While he half expected Sam to be somewhere inside, most likely the office/living room/library, he was pretty sure that Dean was out here somewhere. If he needed any more proof than his gut feeling, he was almost sure as soon as he spotted the dog's chain abandoned on the ground. The animal most likely lay sprawled on it's back somewhere, getting scratched into dog-heaven, completely abandoning it's job as a watch-dog in favour of the no doubt much more appealing massage Dean would have to offer.

In the two days that they'd been back _home _now Dean had pretty much followed his usual pattern, only a little bit reduced in intensity, due to his physical condition most likely. He only went through lengths to appear calm and nonchalant while clearly being anything but, avoiding eye-contact whenever possible, his jokes and teasing banter cut down to a bare minimum. It seemed a bit forced, to say the least, as if he tried but wasn't really into it, not with all his heart. And Bobby could see that it was starting to get to Sam. While at first the young man had seemingly accepted his brother's need for distance and space and quiet he now started to slowly but surely spin himself in circles till he'd be so sprung that he was ready to snap. It was just a matter of time anymore.

He finally found Sam at the kitchen table, one elbow propped onto the worn wooden surface while worrying the already bitten nail to the core of his right thumb. He was staring out the kitchen window, seemingly having forgotten all about the book that lay open in front of him.

Bobby waited a second for the younger man to acknowledge his presence but Sam was so lost in thought that he didn't seem to notice him at all. So Bobby did the only thing proper in a situation like this. He slammed the door shut full force, watching Sam jump with a carefully hidden smile that would have made Dean oh so proud of him, head lowered so just the bill of his ball cap would hide the slightly wicked gleam in his eyes. He might have been an old man compared to those two - still didn't mean he couldn't have some fun every once in a while.

Sam basically fell off the chair, the foot he'd propped up on the chair next to him slipping off the furniture and disappearing underneath the table as he guiltily straightened the seat. He sat up straight as a rod and unconsciously smoothed the light shirt he was wearing over his chest and abs, looking so caught in the act it made startling him like this just a hundred more times worth it.

The older hunter could practically see the bird's leg sticking out of the corner of Sam's mouth while his eyes tried to relay all the innocence of that well-behaved house cat that had just massacred the family's favourite canary while trying to appear nonchalant.

Bobby thought he saw the appeal in playing with Sam's head just a bit at that moment…he'd have to make sure to tell Dean, maybe, re-establish some kind of rapport with him.

God, how he wished the older Winchester would have been here to see it. That would at least have brought some kind of emotion other than carefully crafted _neutral _to his face for once.

But then, it wasn't really fair. The young man in front of him was probably not all that much better off than Dean, the strain of the past days, over a week now, as a matter of fact, wearing on him, the worry and fear and more worry still. And then, as if all that hadn't been enough, the still constant worry about Dean, about the brother that would usually be roaming the house like a caged tiger by now, demanding to be let out, to be able to hunt again. The guy taking over the TV and radio, tearing apart some poor car's carcass, building an EMF meter out of an old toaster, constantly bickering and teasing and bugging Sam whenever he got a chance. The brother that now stayed out of eye- and earshot most of the day, avoiding real physical contact as well as any other kind, keeping himself locked away even more than ever before. Which was hard to believe, but apparently Dean could take it to extents both of them hadn't thought possible.

To say it simply, Sam looked like shit. Warmed over. And then some.

Bobby's wicked smile immediately softened as he moved as casually as possible into the kitchen, placing a dirty screwdriver into the sink without further thought. He placed the towel he'd carried it in next to the freshly washed dishes on the counter before trying to rid his hands of the oily residue of a couple of hours of work on one of the gutted cars out back.

He gave Sam the opportunity to pull himself back together and collect his thoughts and emotions. It wasn't fair that Dean should be the only one being allowed to built up his walls when exposed too much. Sam deserved it just as much.

"What are you reading?" Bobby asked casually, drying his hands on a reasonably clean towel before turning around, glad to find Sam slightly more relaxed and not quite as shaken as just a minute ago. He was still sitting at the table, eyes now on the book in front of him. Two books, as a matter of fact, a big, heavy one and a smaller, tattered bound journal. The smaller one Bobby didn't know, the bigger one he recognized instantly.

It was the book Bobby had gotten from his friend, the one containing the exorcism.

He furrowed his brows a little but stayed at his space at the counter, still not imposing.

Sam shrugged, pushed the heavy volume aside, flipping through the smaller one before looking up, straight at Bobby. There was the one big difference between those two, Bobby realized. Dean shielded his feelings off while Sam just dished them out, willing somebody to see, to understand. Sometimes it was hard to determine which method was the preferred one, at least for Bobby. Both were damn hard to deal with.

"Just going through the books again…trying to cover all the bases, make sense of it all."

"That one right there, that the one you found at the library?" Bobby dipped his chin towards the little volume in Sam's large hands. Sam nodded a quick yes. He'd told him about it on the phone, hadn't showed it to him, though. They'd been kind of preoccupied…

"Can I see it?"

Sam handed the journal over, settling back in his chair and waited until Bobby had flipped through the pages, not really reading but skimming the handwritten paragraphs loosely. Bobby knew that there was nothing much of interest, nothing that they didn't already know. Sam would have made damn sure to have everything covered thoroughly before calling Bobby for help.

"What are you hoping to find here, Sam? We did it…we ended it. And not the way this book told us was the only way. We saved him. So what are you looking for still?"

As if he didn't know.

Again Sam shrugged, turning pages in the big book randomly, smoothing them almost gently.

"I don't know…just some answers, I guess. Just something…we should collect it all in one volume, you know…write it down and spread it. Make sure everyone knows."

"Who's everyone?"

"Every other hunter out there. Anyone you can think of that knows about this stuff…make sure that…make sure that we can help, that this was not for nothing. It could happen again – anytime, anywhere - you know that."

That made Bobby frown.

"How would it be for nothing, Sam? We stopped it, this…thing. We found a way to not only destroy it but save the host, too. I think that pretty much qualifies for one hell of a good job. But I do agree, we should file it all together, spread the word…other hunters need to know about this. You did one hell of a good job on this."

Sam leaned back in his chair, arms folded defiantly over his chest, laughing low but bitterly.

"Yeah, one hell of a good job we did… I wonder if Mark, or better yet, Mark's family would agree with you..."

Ah hell, so this was what this was all about. Only that Bobby had this feeling that it wasn't the whole story. But first things first.

"You know that there was nothing we could have done. When you found out how to beat this, Mark already was not only possessed, but he had killed already, had already given in to the Ragazara's demands. There is no way to know if we would have been able to help him anymore…"

"Yeah, but we should have at least tried."

"Well, we did try, Sam. We went there to check up on him, see how we could help him, right? Problem was, even if he'd still been alive, how the hell would we have been able to perform an exorcism in a locked up mental facility, can you tell me that? And then, even if we'd somehow been able to spring him and persuade him to let us tie him up and carve some weird-ass symbol into his chest, burn down some incence and candles all around him and practically choke him with herbal tea…there is no way to tell, Sam, _no way_ to be sure that it would have worked."

Sam's eyes were blazing and he winced visibly as Bobby recounted of the harrowing actions they'd been forced to pull off not too long ago, that they'd been forced to subject Dean to.

"We should have at least tried…"

Hell, stubborn, much? But that was Sam for you, all of the ten year old that refused to accept that he had to stay behind at Bobby's while his father and brother went out on a hunt. The ten year old that didn't want to accept that he couldn't go after said father and brother himself, alone, when they'd failed to show up again after the promised two day period. The same kid that Bobby almost had to lock into his room to keep him from barrelling after his family by himself.

"We _did _try, Sam." Bobby said, quietly.

It was times like this when he envied Dean's unrelenting stoicism when it came to his little brother, at least when they'd still been younger. It had changed a bit over the years, but all in all their roles hadn't changed really, save for some small alterations.

"Well, then we didn't try hard enough." Sam jutted his lower jaw out, teeth clenched.

Bobby sighed, tugged at the brim of his cap irritatedly, trying to figure out how to handle this properly.

This was the time when he figured that, maybe, having kids wasn't all that easy to begin with. For all the times he'd reprimanded John, had thought he'd known so much better when it came to handling those two knuckleheads there…maybe he really had been wrong, on one or two occasions. Maybe the tough-love approach really was the only way to go at times.

"You are shitting me, right? I mean come on…we didn't try hard enough? Have you been there? Have you seen what I've seen? Because I think we tried one hell of a lot…and we saved your brother, Sam. _We saved your brother_. And, don't get me wrong, but at the end of the day, Dean still is my priority over any other guy. I know that is selfish and wrong, but that's the way it is. We saved him. And we didn't just up and leave after, we went back to try and help that guy, Mark. We tried, Sam. There was no way for us to know that we would be too late…"

The look of defeat crossing Sam's face was heartbreaking and Bobby knew where it was coming from. God, he hated this, he honestly did. Because as sure as anything, he felt almost as bad as Sam for being too late to help Mark Bowers, who'd been nothing more than an innocent victim himself. His only mishap being, that he didn't have a brother willing to try everything, give everything to save him. His downfall the fact that he didn't know what was out there, about the darkness creeping and crowding around the edges of light.

He simply hadn't been strong enough in the end. Not strong enough to leave and not come back for his wife. Because, as much as the love the hosts were feeling would intensify the hatred many times over, in the end it had been that love and devotion that had kept Dean from lashing out with all the force he'd clearly wanted to. And while even Dean would not have been able to keep himself in check forever, he'd held on much longer than Bobby would have thought possible, knowing the fuel that kid was running on.

They'd returned to the facility Mark had been held in on their way out of town, out of state. Dean had been so deep in fever-induced sleep that he hadn't been aware, thankfully. Bobby wasn't sure if they should tell him, not right now at least. He was having a hard enough time dealing with everything that happened as it was, why add to his self-doubts just now? Maybe later, once he was doing better…

Sam had gone in alone, they'd had no plan whatsoever, had decided to play it by chance to see what evolved and then act accordingly.

They'd had no idea how Mark Bowers would be doing at the time…there was no reported case of any host ever surviving the Ragazara's possession, especially not _after_ he'd given in and killed in order to satisfy it's needs. They'd had no idea if the need to commit suicide after would go away with time, if the spell or residue or whatever it was that the Ragazara left behind would ever wane off or relinquish its hold on the host.

It had turned out that at least in Mark's case, he hadn't been strong enough, hadn't known enough to beat it. When Sam had come out of the _hospital _again, Bobby had known that it hadn't gone well.

It had turned out that Mark had managed to sneak away undetected, had somehow managed to find a knife. The guards had found him a couple of hours later, pretty much bled out, in one of the toilet stalls of the basement bathroom. How he'd managed to actually cut both his arms with the pretty blunt kitchen knife remained a miracle, the hospital staff informed Sam. But he'd managed, some weird kind of rage they called it having driven him, apparently.

They'd been too late.

But then again. How were they supposed to have known? And it wasn't as if they'd been sitting on their thumbs all this time. Still it weighed heavily on both Sam's and Bobby's mind, the drive from there on a rather quiet one. Bobby had tried to be the voice of reason, to Sam as well as himself, but he hadn't quite succeeded. Dean probably the only reason they hadn't snapped eventually.

Because, as much as Sam and Bobby blamed themselves, Dean wouldn't do any less. He'd definitely blame himself for what happened to Mark, would blame himself for getting infected and keeping them from doing their job the way he thought was proper. And he'd blame _them _for choosing _him_ over Mark, which was ridiculous and wrong and unreasonable, but that would be the only way he'd allow himself to think.

Bobby honestly didn't know who was more fucked up in their weird little family here.

Sam still sat at the table, as still as a statue, eyes locked onto the page of the book that lay open before him, not reading but merely fighting for calm, for reason. Sam had to know that Bobby was right. He had to know.

Bobby finally went over to the table, pulled out the chair across from the younger Winchester and sat down, angling himself back a little to give Sam time and space until he was ready to look at him again.

"You do know that it wasn't our fault, right?" he asked very gently.

Finally, Sam nodded. Not entirely convinced, Bobby knew that, but he could also see that Sam knew, deep down, that he just had a hard time pushing past the guilt. But he was working on it.

"Just, you know, let's do this the right way - like when you guys were still kids and all and let me hear you say it, Sam. You always had that way of telling me off later, saying that you never agreed to something I asked of you because you'd just nodded instead of telling me yes…"

That made Sam smile.

"I must have been a pain in the ass…"

"Yeah, well…" Bobby shrugged but chuckled good-heartedly. Truth was, they were two of the best boys he'd ever laid his eyes on. Seeing friends and neighbours struggle with their kids, those two boys were well within the lines of reason…most of the time. Considering the world they lived in. Only, when they actually did cross that line, they crossed it for good – no looking back.

Sam shifted forward, fingers tracing the edges of the page open in front of him, smiling still, albeit a little painful.

"Alright…I know, OK, I know. Just might take me a little while to be all nonchalant about it, alright?"

Bobby nodded curtly.

"Good enough for me."

The faint smile on his lips disappeared as Sam again started to chew on his bottom lip, flipping the pages back and forth a little. Bobby couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else plaguing Sam and he decided that he was going to wait him out, that he was not going to give in and up and leave.

Only, Sam could be about as stubborn as Dean, no, even more so when he chose to. And right now he didn't seem to be able to bring himself to actively open up and tell Bobby. With a heavy sigh the older hunter decided to once again give in and just ask. At least he knew that Sam was going to answer him. Contrary to Dean the younger man usually was willing to spill his guts - Dean had always made sure that he always had someone to talk to, no matter what about, no matter the time.

"Alright, what else? I'm gonna take your word for it and trust you to not beat yourself up over Mark anymore, but I can see those wheels turning, Sam, hell, I can _hear_ them do it. So, you either tell me or I'll just sit here and stare at you till you give it up willingly."

This time, Sam didn't smile.

He stayed quiet for so long that Bobby thought he actually was in for a long afternoon, because he was fully prepared to make good of his threat. Just when he was about to make himself comfortable, maybe get a beer out of the fridge to shorten the wait, Sam suddenly burst.

"How do we know, Bobby…how do we know that Dean…that he's alright? I mean, we know that the Ragazara leaves something behind when it leaves its host, right? It latches onto someone else usually, leaves behind something, an essence or whatever and…you know the lore, hell, we've seen it happen first hand. Look at…all the others before him…look at what Mark did, even after all this time… OK, so we exorcised it, banished it, killed it - whatever. But how can we be sure, I mean 100 percent sure, that he's alright? This thing leaves something behind that makes the host want to kill himself, it takes so much with it, too, when it leaves. How do we know that it didn't…take away a part of him…something vital? I don't…have you seen him? Have you taken a good look at him? Because I can do nothing but look at him, watch him, _listen_ to him breathe at night and watch him walk around like some kind of zombie! He's not himself anymore, Bobby. He can't even look me in the eyes anymore, he barely talks to me. I mean, yeah, he eats and walks and talks, but he's not talking _to _me. He can't wait to get up and outside, stay away most of the day. He gets better, physically and all, but I just…I wonder…I'm afraid that…"

Sam had leaned across the table, closing in on Bobby, his eyes on fire, close to grabbing Bobby and shaking him, the hunter was afraid. All of a sudden Sam was at a loss for words, or awash with too many. It was hard to tell with him, at times.

Bobby had a hard time figuring out how to react. Because, truth be told, he had been thinking the same thing. Fleetingly. Just once. Or twice. But he couldn't really let Sam know. Or rather, he needed to make sure Sam figured this out on his own. He couldn't give up on his brother. Dean would do the same for him, anytime.

"You're afraid that he's not entirely…himself anymore?"

The guilt that swept over Sam's eyes made Bobby feel terrible instantly. Before the young man could retreat from him again, Bobby charged on.

"Sam, I can't…give you any absolute reassurance, you know that, but I can tell you one thing. If there's one thing I know about Dean, it's that he'll fight this…just the way he's fought it so far, he's going to keep fighting. He might seem a bit…besides himself but I think that its just because he's still trying to get to terms with all that's happened. You know him a thousand times better than I do, but you know he's beating himself up…and even though he's not aware of it himself, I think all he needs is some time and, you know, maybe some help from us…some nudge in the right direction. He'll be alright…he'll get better. I'm sure of it."

Sam held his eyes, needing the connection, the reassurance.

"You nudge him, then… I don't think I want to be receiver of his wrath if I start the nudging and prodding. He's pretty set on that…he's the one doing all of that, I'm only allowed to be on the receiving end," Sam said quietly, but Bobby saw him tug the right side of his mouth into a reluctant smile, albeit still all but convinced.

"Yeah, well. He's still not completely up to par physically. So I'd say, you do some nudging, then take off running. Right now he probably won't be able to catch up. Might serve as a training-technique, because the way he's sitting around my yard, denting in the hoods of the cars, spoiling the dog senseless, he's not going to be getting back in shape any faster, I tell you…!"

That finally cracked Sam up. It wasn't true, they both knew that. Dean still needed time for his body to heal and pushing himself was alright up to a certain point but not of much use if he overdid it. He was doing alright, more than that, considering. But teasing him a bit, even if it was only to give Sam back his smile, was alright, Bobby figured.

Damn, he would be ready to write a parent's counselling book or something by the time those two left him again. He had a whole lot of experience in that department by now. Could probably make a whole bunch of money out of it.

"What are you smiling at?" Sam asked, incredulously.

Bobby shook himself, managed to not burst out and tell Sam about his new business idea. Some things he should probably keep to himself. He'd just make sure to get those two a signed copy of the book once it was published.

"Nothing, just thinking about something. Doesn't matter. Just give him time, Sam. He'll come around, he always does. And if he doesn't, we'll take a more direct approach. Till then, you guys can stay here for as long as you like, you know that."

Sam nodded, his eyes thanking Bobby loud and clear. The kid knew that they always had a home here, no matter what.

"Only thing you need to get me is a new watch dog after you leave. Ares is going to be regressed beyond hope if Dean keeps pampering him for another day or two…"

"And _I _was always the one whining about wanting a dog when we were younger…" Sam mused quietly.

"I think that brother of yours just enjoys working against me here. Always has. Takes weeks of work to get the dogs back on track again after he leaves."

Sam chuckled and leaned back in his chair again, willing himself to relax. His hands unclenching, the book finally forgotten in front of him.

Bobby nodded, collected himself and got up, opening the fridge to take out a pair of cellophane-wrapped sandwiches. He took one and flung the other one onto the table before grabbing a six-pack of beer-bottles, tearing that open as well and taking out three, again leaving two on the table for Sam to take. He saluted with his own bottle as he made his way back out towards the front door.

"I'm guessing Dean's out by the old tire pile out back…maybe you could go check that he didn't set it on fire or something…?! I'll be back in for dinner. Make sure you get him back in by then."

And with that he left.

Sam would know what to do with the information given.

The kid was about as good about taking care of his brother as Dean the other way around. Sam just didn't get the chance to live it out in the open a much as his big brother did.

Bobby was only halfway down the front porch when he heard the back door creak open, then slam closed again.

He sighed heavily, shook his head but rolled his eyes at the same time.

Those boys could be stealthy as hell when it came to stalking demons and ghouls, but doors they didn't seem to know how to close quietly…

Bobby smiled to himself and went back to work.

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxx

tbc

_AN:_

_So…looks like we're nearing the end – only one more chapter to go… _

_I'm not yet sure how I feel about it…wrapping something up that I've __been working on for such a long time…_

_About the first part – being at Bobby's…I know it's a bit "over the top", probably, but I couldn't figure out a way to tone it done and still get everything said that I wanted to…so you're stuck with the long and way too emotional version…sorry about that. _

_I'll blame it on lack of vocabulary from my part…you know...english not being my first language and all, so I have huge holes in both vocabulary and grammar, most likely. Sorry I couldn't do better. I hope you'll like it anyways, or at least not hate it too much!_

_So, please, if you like and find the time, leave a review – it always has and always will mean a lot to me, more than it probably should! _

_You're all great. wonderful, awesome. Seriously. I cherish every single review and all the silent support as well! _

_So, if you're up for the last chapter, I hope I'll get it done and posted in time. _

_Thanks for everything and take care!_


	18. Chapter 18

_Alright…the last chapter. Never thought I'd make it…but here it is. _

_I'm surprisingly calm posting this, so you'll be the judge if that's a good or a bad thing ;-)_

**From this dark room**

**Chapter 18**

"Hey…"

Sam approached the carcass of one of the gutted trucks that lay rusting away in the back of Bobby's salvage yard.

"Hey…"

Dean, who was sitting on the hood of a old ford-pickup didn't so much as take his eyes off whatever he was looking at, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other bend at the knee, left arm held to his side. His fingers nimbly held on to the neck of an almost-empty beer bottle that sat between his thighs on the rusted and dented hood of the car.

Sam ambled over another couple of steps, rounding the huge Rottweiler/Doberman mix that lay sprawled on its side next to one of the front tires - or rather, next to where the front tires were supposed to be. It barely opened its eye, ear twitching, then grunting and stretching before lying still again.

Sam lifted his hand that held two newly opened, still sweating bottles of Dean's favorite brew, wiggling them slightly. He spilled a little over his fingers and he carefully licked it off before repeating the motion more carefully this time.

"Think I could join the party? I've got something to buy my way in if that's what it takes!"

Dean glanced over, raising one eyebrow and Sam couldn't help but notice he was still a bit too pale, a bit too haggard, his cheeks a little too caved in, his hair a little too ruffled to appear as _normal _and _alright_ as he no doubt wanted to appear.

"I'm afraid the party is closed due to overcrowding, Sammy. Sorry. No space available."

Sam grunted, moved over and climbed the dangerously rusted fender anyway, waiting for his brother to scoot over on the hood and make space for him to sit down in a mirror stance to Dean's, their shoulders almost touching.

"There's always space for one more, dude." Sam said softly while handing one bottle over to his brother. But he didn't mean the beer, and they both knew it.

Dean took the last swig out of his old bottle, let it drop to the ground next to the car and grabbed the new one with still slightly stiff fingers. He didn't take another drink right away, but started drawing circular designs into the sweaty glass with his thumb, looking wistful.

"You know, you always said that."

"Said what?"

"When you were little, and you woke up from a nightmare or were scared of a thunderstorm or the monster in the closet and you wanted to crawl into my bed in the middle of the night… I used to say that there wasn't enough space for the both of us and you always said _but Dean, I'm not that tall, there's got to be room for me…_ Always got you way with that one…"

"Yeah, right. You _SO_ just made that up!"

Dean shook his head, smiling faintly.

"Did not. Man, you were one insistent little bugger. Always ended up with the biggest part of the blanket, too. Almost kicked me out of bed on more than one occasion."

Sam just sat, took a swig out of his bottle, actually glimpsing something that felt like a memory flashing before his inner eye.

"Must have been before it became socially awkward to share a bed then…I remember vividly the times when dad didn't give us a choice though, renting rooms with only two beds to save some money. Remember that one time, I don't know when or where exactly, but we were bitching and whining about it for hours until dad forced us to sleep on the floor so we'd see how good we actually had it having even one bed to start with…?"

Dean's head tipped a little to the side, eyes still averted.

"Yeah…was before a lot of things…was before you grew to be a freaking giant, pretty much pushing me out of the bed as soon as you fell asleep and I ended up having to sleep in yours anyway. I always knew you were swinging in a different direction then, still never had the heart to deny you anything though…"

The smile Dean used while saying it disarmed the statement right away, leaving nothing of the stale taste behind that had accompanied each and every single sentence he'd delivered over the past couple of days.

"Not my fault you stopped growing at the age of four, man…"

Dean flipped him a one-fingered answer to that, which was actually a kind of two fingered one since the fingers of his right hand still wouldn't really work properly, middle and ring finger splinted together, the whole limb swollen and puffy, the wrist bandaged thickly. Then he quickly put the bottle to his mouth with his left, trying in vain to hide the smirk that had begun to settle on his lips. But even if he'd been successful, the smile around his eyes, fine lines crowding to soften his features, the smile he couldn't hide as easily, was still there.

Maybe they _were_ getting better again. Sam hadn't thought it possible anymore. Not after as many ups and downs as they'd had in the past couple of days, months…hell, probably even years.

"I must have been a pain in the ass…" Sam said softly.

"Still are." Dean shot back, far too quickly and as if on autopilot, as if it was something he'd been programmed to say at the right moment, the right cue-word.

Sam took another swig of his beer he used to hide his own smile behind. Dean was still staring down, peeling at the label of his bottle, pulling the edge off and rolling them between his fingers to form a little ball he then flicked off onto the trampled and brown grass in front of the car.

"Still love me though." Sam said quietly, mouth tugged into a half-smile, praying that he got it right, that he wasn't taking it too fast. He still had the feeling that they could break apart again any second, their relationship too fragile to warrant too much teasing.

"Yeah…what can I say…I'm an awesome big brother. The most patient one, too. Always have been. Too soft a heart for those puppy dogs you learned to pull on me from, like, when you were barely a day old. Got you the last cookie every single time."

"Maybe that's why I continued growing past the size of a midget, then…"

"Midget my ass." Dean countered quickly "You know that girls like to have a shoulder to lean on, not a bellybutton to stub their nose in…"

Sam barked a short laugh.

"Jealous, much?"

"Like hell…"

They both took another swig of their beer simultaneously, looking out over the salvage yard as if it was the most beautiful scenery ever, some sunset or mountain or soft flowing river. And to them it almost appeared that way. Scratch the tires and rusted cars piled on top of each other, the dried grass and dust covering the ground and use some of your imagination and it almost was the most beautiful place they'd ever been. What was so special about beaches and mountains anyway? The house and garage – Bobby - and, hell, to Dean even the cars all they needed to be happy, right? This life at least taught them to care about the really important things, in the end.

"You know…I'm going to be alright, Sammy… _We're_ going to be alright…"

Dean's voice startled Sam out of his reverie and he momentarily forgot the _not looking straight at Dean_ rule and looked over, eyebrows raised imploringly.

"What…? Uhm…yeah, Dean, sure. We are…"

_Now what the hell…? _Where had that come from all of a sudden?

"No, you know…I mean it. I know you…Bobby too…you're worried about me… But I'm alright. I'll be back on my feet in a day or two and we can get moving again - find us another hunt. We could leave right now, actually. I just…don't wanna disappoint Bobby and leave too soon. You know, at his age and all, he needs to feel needed…"

Sam couldn't help but stare at Dean's profile, couldn't look away from what he realized was supposed to be Dean's most determined face but turned out to look more like he wanted to persuade himself more than anybody else.

"Uhm, Dean…I know you are feeling better and all, but there's no hurry. We kinda have an open invitation, so why don't we just take it easy and stay, get you back on your feet, let you get your strength back. You have to be exhausted still…"

Sam knew the moment the words left his mouth that it had been the wrong approach. Never make this about Dean, Sam knew it, the number one rule in the _how to deal with Dean Winchester _book. Never make it about Dean but make it seem as if it was about Sam instead, or Bobby, or dad, or a complete stranger even…anyone but Dean himself. He might consider playing along with it then.

"I'm fine, Sam. I told you. I'm fine. Got plenty of rest as it is. I didn't do much, period, didn't even get hurt real bad or anything. I'm feeling good, we could leave right now, if that's what you want - if you need any proof…"

Dean's whole body had tensed up again, fingers tight around the neck of the beer bottle. His face closed off and Sam could have kicked himself - and mentally he did just that. Tried desperately to find a way out of this.

"I'm not…I wasn't…Jesus, Dean, ease up, will you? I wasn't suggesting that you weren't as capable or anything. I just…you need a break, Dean. Hell, _I_ need a break. You think this has been easy on me?"

And damn again. Right from bad to worse. One could think that he would be able to actually think before opening his goddamn mouth.

Dean nodded tensely, the muscles in his jaw cording and twitching as he lowered his head, letting his lashes cover his eyes, curtaining himself off.

"Dean…"

"No, no, you're right. I messed up. Big time. And I'm sorry. I don't know…how I can make it up for you, Sam, but I'll find a way. I'll make this up to you, I'll make this right again… I'll find a way."

Dean made to get up and Sam knew that if he let him go now, he'd most likely need to start all over, if he ever even got the chance again, that was. And he was just so sick of waiting.

"Fuck no, Dean. You don't get to walk away from me now. We need to talk about this? So lets talk. Now. No more stalling or avoiding or beating around the bush. We talk. Now."

The force behind his own voice surprised Sam himself and apparently Dean was taken a little off his track as well as he looked at him wide eyed for maybe a second too long before closing up again.

"There's nothing to talk about…I messed up. I'm sorry. Case closed. It won't happen again."

Dean turned away, taking an angry swig of his beer, his posture radiating anger and…impatience – at himself, at getting caught off his guard like that. Sam knew that the only thing keeping his brother from getting up and walking away from him at the moment was the fact that, the way he'd been sitting here for probably some hours already, his muscles would not obey quite as unconditional and smoothly as he would have liked. Dean knew that. And he wouldn't allow for what he would think to be a weakness to show, so he forced himself to stay and sit it out.

Fine, if that's what it took, so be it. Right now Sam would take whatever help he could get.

"How did you mess up, Dean? You got possessed, it happens. To the best of us." Sam's grin was left unanswered. OK, so they were past that point already – or not quite there yet. Either way, it had been worth the try.

"It doesn't just _happen_, Sam. I _let_ it happen. And I couldn't fight it…"

"Like hell you let it happen, Dean. He jumped you. You didn't know…we didn't know. And you did fight, goddamn it, you fought nails and teeth."

"Then I probably should have fought harder."

The dog next to the car sat up, ears perking as he no doubt picked up the tensed atmosphere between them, looking at Sam and Dean in turn, the sight almost comical.

"What are you talking about…trying harder? We didn't know. You got jumped. You fought it. With all you had. You know what this thing is capable of, you read the book, you _know_, Dean. It could have happened to anyone, hell, it could have happened to me, if I would have sat in that chair instead of you."

"Yeah, great, but it wasn't you, it was me. And with all we know, what we found out, I should have been able to beat this. Or at least leave you behind until we figured this out. Before…"

Sam was so frustrated, he felt like slamming the beer bottle right into Dean's face, just to beat some sense into his clearly impaired brother. Only, he doubted that another hit on the head would do him more good than harm.

"God, you are…you're impossible, you know that? What the hell's wrong with you? Are you looking for something to blame yourself for, is that it? You need to suffer in order to feel whole or something? I know you aren't stupid or anything, but sometimes I really doubt your sanity, Dean. This…I don't even know what to say to you…"

The dog had gotten up, stretching and yawning seemingly incuriously while at the same time eyeing them out of the corner of it's eyes and Sam couldn't shake the distinct feeling that the dog would be ready to pounce on him the minute he got off the car, no doubt trying to protect Dean. Even though it seemed outwardly relaxed the huge animal emanated the same sense of tension, ready to spring into action coil of muscle and mind that also made Dean the dangerous hunter that he was.

So, better not get off the car while they were still fighting or rather, arguing then. Sam really didn't fancy fighting off the 100 pound dog and then chasing after his brother, leg chewed up to a bloody pulp.

"Just cut it out, Sam. Let's just forget I ever said anything, alright?"

That about did it.

"No, no, Dean, we don't just forget. We sort this out. Now. I wanna go back to normal again, you got me? I'm sick and tired of us traipsing around each other. We've been through this before…we were getting better, Dean. I don't want us losing that again. It's just the two of us now, no more dad to blame anything on, to let off steam with. We're in this together - all of it. Just, please, don't make this any harder than it already is, alright? I get that you feel terrible, I get it. I've been there, too, remember?"

Sam shuddered at the memory, the feeling of self-recrimination, of guilt. But Dean hadn't let him beat himself up, had kept him from delving even deeper into his misery. And if Dean had managed to do it, Sam could, too.

"I felt like shit, but weren't you the one who told me that it wasn't my fault, that I shouldn't blame myself? I remember you saying that, over and over and over again, through all my nightmares and worries and moments of self-destruction. Hell, Dean, I lied to you, ran away from you, shot you, beat you up…and still you insisted that it wasn't my fault, that you didn't blame me. So, you lied to me on that one? You actually do blame me after all?"

At that Dean straightened, whipped his head around to latch dangerously glinting eyes on him, chin dipped low.

"You know that's not true. I didn't…I don't… That wasn't your _fault_, Sam."

Sam spread his hands in a helpless gesture, left palm turned outwards, the other hand still clutching the damn beer-bottle like a fucking lifeline.

"Alright…so, how is it that it wasn't my fault back then, but it's yours now? Enlighten me here, Dean because I really want to see the logic in this… Where do you draw the line as to who's to blame and who isn't?"

"It just…that was different, Sam…"

"How? How was that different Dean? I don't get it."

"That was…it was…"

Dean was flailing, but Sam wasn't going to let him get the hook.

"What? It was what?" he pressed, leaning closer.

"It was you…it was different because it was you."

Sam stopped short at that. Just for a second.

"That's no explanation, Dean. How is it that you get to be judged by different standards than me?"

Dean looked like a deer caught in the headlight, wishing desperately to be able to pounce off into the forest just feet away, yet hopelessly unable to simply move a single muscle.

"I…this was me, Sam. You get that? It wasn't some kind of demon possessing me, taking over my body to use for it's own intentions and purposes. It was me, live and uncensored. A part of me, no black smoke or eyes or anything the like, no skin walker using my awesome looks for its advantage. It was me and nobody _but_ me. Me doing those things, me saying those things, me…hurting you…wanting to kill you… You have no idea…no idea how that felt, Sam…_knowing_."

Dean took a deep, shuddering breath.

"I knew what I was saying to you, I knew what I was doing. I knew that it was wrong…and I still did it. It wasn't like with you and Meg…I was completely aware, you know, at all times. I saw you, I knew it was you, who you were and what you meant to me and still…I wanted to stop but I fucking couldn't. That's why it's different Sam. Because when you were possessed, it was Meg, her doing this, her using you. But this here, that was me, no one else. No one else to blame but me…"

He was almost out of breath after his confession, everything breaking out of him with such force, it almost blew Sam right off the car and into the dirt surrounding it. Dean was stunned by it himself, he was breathing heavily, his hand clenched into a fists so tight, Sam was afraid he was going to break the bottle of beer he was still holding onto. His knuckles were turning white already and Sam instinctively reached forward stopping just short of touching though, not sure if he was allowed to make contact yet, if it wouldn't only serve to make matters worse.

Sam shifted his body around, forcing Dean to look at him, giving him no choice but to look straight at him or away on purpose and Sam was fully prepared to grab his brother's face and make him keep up the eye-contact if need be. The car creaked dangerously underneath his shifting weight, making the dog take a couple of steps back before sitting down again, it's whole attention focused unabashedly onto them now.

No more playing pretend.

"You listen to me now, Dean, and you listen good."

Dean's head snapped back a little as he no doubt realized that there was no way out for him anymore. The windshield at his back, Sam in front. To his side freedom, sure, but he needed to get off the damn car first, and he no doubt knew that he wouldn't be fast or agile enough to so without either Sam getting to him first or him falling rather ungracefully on his way down. Neither option seemed to appeal to him right now.

"There is no way you make this about you again, you hear me? You were possessed, Dean, _possessed_. That thing, call it whatever you like, crawling inside of you and turning you against yourself. It took your…feelings and emotions and memories, all the love and devotion and whatever else it could get a hold of and twisted them around."

Sam threw up his hands, let them slump down again theatrically.

"So, yeah, it wasn't quite as impressive as me being inhabited by a chick and all, no binding link and black smoke and cracking the ceiling by sheer power of will, but under no circumstances, no way _whatsoever _was that thing _you_, Dean. It wasn't even close. Just a piss poor spin off, nothing else. It just used you, tried to break you. I know you fought it, I saw you give me that tiny window of opportunity to fight you off when you were trying to cut my throat, saw you fight back so I could get the drop on you. You didn't let it win, you beat it. We beat it. End of story. You never grew tired of telling me that you didn't blame me and you expected me to believe you, right?"

Dean just stared at him, head slightly down, doing that _shadowing the eyes_ thing again that sometimes drove Sam mad. Just like right now.

"Dean…you expected me to believe because you really meant it, right?"

Finally, Dean nodded, almost imperceptibly.

"'Course I do."

"Right, so why don't you cut me some slack and believe me now, alright? I'm telling you it wasn't your fault. None of it. And, sure, it was hell, on me too, Dean, but me being possessed wasn't exactly a walk in the park for you either, so I guess we can call it even. And don't give me crap like _mine was worse than yours_ or anything like that, because you can't really win that competition, dude, and you know it. We close this case now, once and for all and call it even. We can talk about this all you want, which I know you won't, but we can, just so you know. But you will stop blaming yourself or, so help me god …"

Dean snorted, had to clear his throat before it came out a halfway decent sound, his voice not cracking anymore. Sam thought he saw a glint of wetness in the corner of his eyes, glazing over the radiant green, but he couldn't really be sure since Dean was too quick to avert his gaze, cover it up again.

"That was one hell of a speech there… How many times _did_ _you_ watch Good Will Hunting, Sammy?"

"Don't make fun of this, Dean. Just don't. I need you to take this seriously, alright? Just this once. Let's just pretend that you are not some _smart-ass-know-it-all_ and please don't make fun of me on this… I was terrified, Dean, you get that? I was terrified that I was going to lose you. Do you have any idea?"

Dean's eyes flicked over to his briefly but Sam didn't give his brother a chance to interrupt.

"You were out for over three days, Dean. Three days. You didn't wake up for almost 75 hours. Do you have any idea what that did to me…watching you lie there, not moving, then seizing and cramping and practically foaming from the mouth …? I didn't sleep, Dean, for over 50 hours after the…exorcism I didn't dare close my eyes because I was afraid that the moment I would, you'd stop breathing. You chipped about 10 years off me and Bobby both, dude, all that worry, all that waiting…"

"I'm sorry…"

"Don't…don't be sorry, Dean. I don't want you to be sorry. Do you have any idea how I felt, thinking that, maybe, I'd signed your death warrant, that I actively had a hand in killing my own brother? And yeah, I know what dad asked of you and I think that I get it now…I get it. Because I almost did, Dean, I almost killed you. I tied you up and held you down and carved something into your chest…"

Dean's bandaged and splinted hand instinctively flipped up towards his chest, laying over the spot on his pec that still throbbed with a burning sensation, with searing heat every once in a while, waking him almost every night from some unwelcome dream. Sam knew. And he winced along with his brother, closed his eyes in pain as he remembered doing that to Dean, remembered the look of horror and disbelief and hatred Dean had given him right before he'd finally passed out, only to stay like that for goddamn three days straight.

"We had no idea if you were going to wake up again, no idea if you were going to be…yourself again after or if that thing had taken too much of you already for you to ever be whole again. We had nothing to go by but one single, questionable account of that exorcism. You know, I was almost willing to actually untie you, right before we started, untie you and let you go out and fucking kill someone, anyone, just so you could get all that anger and hatred out of your system."

Sam couldn't believe he was saying this, couldn't believe he admitted to the terrifying thoughts that had crossed his mind. He sure wasn't proud of himself, but the fear for his brother had been too damn strong…

"I was willing to risk some innocent life to try something that would have most likely not worked. I was desperate, Dean, I was fucking scared shitless. If it wasn't for Bobby, I don't know if I'd been able to pull through this, not by myself. But you know what, none of this matters. Because we made it – it's over and done with. But if you bail out on me now, if you turn your back and shut me out, there'd be no sense to it, anymore."

Sam gulped in a breath, ran a weary hand over his eyes before going on.

"I get it, you know, all that blind devotion and faith and willingness to give up everything for your family, Dean. Because those days when I watched you lie there, no idea if you were ever going to wake up again, I would have been willing to give everything to get you back. I always would have, you know that, but seeing this…seeing you… I won't let you beat yourself up. I wanted you back, I got you back, I deserve to have you back, damn it. You owe me that much, Dean, you owe me to be my brother again."

The silence that fell between them was heavy and only broken by the heavy huff of the dog as it started inching closer to the car, obviously getting nervous. It's keen canine senses picking up on the strained vibe in the air, ready to protect Dean, no doubt, contributor of many a tender show of affection, a snatched away piece of chicken breast or nibbled off pork rib over the past two days.

A low, almost questioning growl sounded from somewhere to the side and Sam tensed a little.

He eyed the dog out of the corner of his eyes, not daring to take his eyes away form his brother's face completely, fearing that he'd lose him if he turned away now. He knew the huge animal would have no problem getting up on the car with one probably not even very large leap. He wasn't usually afraid of dogs, liked them more than Dean did, as a matter of fact, but this right now made him just a tad nervous. It was as if the dog was mirroring Dean's state of mind, almost, as if the animal was able to feel what his brother was feeling, reacting as Dean would never be able to react, never _allow_ him self to react out in the open.

When Dean cleared his throat, Sam almost jumped out of his skin. It was only now he realized that he'd taken a hold of his brother's shoulder, the good one in a pretty harsh grip. The other shoulder Dean still held close to his chest even though he had just this morning refused to wear the straps holding it immobile anymore.

Sam unclenched his fingers quickly, eased up and smoothed the fabric of Dean's shirt apologetically before letting his hand drop back into his lap. Still able to reach out any second, still close enough.

"So…uhm…" Dean rasped, then cleared his throat dryly "…you wanna call it even…"

Sam nodded, eager like a five-year-old, he realized, but what the hell.

"Yeah…"

Dean nodded too, running his tongue over his bottom lip, unconsciously smoothing his still bandaged and swollen hand over that spot on his chest, poking at the gauze underneath the shirt until he winced in obvious pain but still not stopping. Sam finally reached out, gently plucked the hand away from his chest, feeling the muscles in Dean's forearm flex for an instant before going lax again, allowing Sam to deposit the limb back in Dean's lap.

Dean again nodded, eyes actually flicking up as he dipped his chin upwards, meeting Sam's gaze for the first time during their talk, for the first time not drawing away again immediately.

"You think I owe you that…"

It was a statement more than a question.

Sam felt like one of those dogs in the back of a car, head bobbing up and down continuously during the drive. Those things would drive him insane. Right now the thought made him smile.

"Yeah, I think you do."

"And then we'd be even?"

"Yep, I think I could live with that."

Dean shrugged, looking away, furrowing his brow, apparently thinking it through.

Sam could see him locking eyes with the dog, the animal's gaze not wavering as it held Dean's eyes before suddenly dropping back down to the ground with a heavy thud. It rested its huge head on its front paws with an exaggerated sigh before blinking its lids shut. Sam thought he still saw a slit of amber peeking out, realizing that the dog still kept up his guard, not shutting down completely. Still doing its job.

"So…if I say yes to that now, there's no taking it back later, right?"

Sam thought he'd detected a very faint hint of a teasing undertone in Dean's voice, but he was still far too serious to be absolutely nonchalant, so Sam chose to take his own advice to heart and not make fun of this right now. Not that he felt like it…

"No, absolutely no turning back. You commit yourself, that's going to be the end of it."

Again that nodding thing, it seemed to be somewhat compulsive with them, lately.

"You don't seem to give me much of a choice here…"

"No, I'm not. You should have thought about that when you delivered the speech to me back after we got rid of Meg. You know I've always been able to keep things like that memorized. It has to suck getting your own medicine thrown back in your face like that…!"

Dean tipped his head to the side, the corner of his mouth curling into an involuntary smile.

"Yeah, go figure. And there I was thinking that you never listen to anything I say to you."

"Should know me better than that, man."

Silence again, but the tension was fainter than before – and waning still. Still Sam detained from getting all light-headed with success. He knew better than to count his chickens before they were hatched.

Dean sat still but seemed a little more relaxed, his breaths deep. That wistful _look in the distance_ look that always made Sam want to snap a finger in front of his eyes crept over his features, smoothing out some of the lines of worry and tension that had been prominent there just moments ago. Dean started swirling the now empty bottle of beer between his fingers, the glass of the bottom scratching lightly over the peeled lacquer of the hood, peeling off tiny pieces of paint that stuck to the sweating bottle.

Sam took the last swig of his own bottle, copying Dean's motions for a minute before he decided that now would be as good a time as any to get that final agreement from his brother. Just like Bobby had said to him before, he needed to hear it in order to believe it. Dean no doubt knew about that rule as well, very likely to play it in his own favor as much as Sam was.

"So, what do you say…we got a deal or what?"

Dean looked at him a little doubtful, raising an eyebrow, revealing once more orbs of green that at least in Sam's mind were a little less burdened than before. At least that was what he wanted to believe.

"That getting even, not blaming ourselves thing goes both ways, though, doesn't it? No more you kicking yourself for being _Meg-nitized _and going all feral on me either, right?"

"Yeah, sure. That's what _getting even_ means, Dean. We both cut ourselves some slack. Should be easy enough. I heard other people do it all the time."

"Alright…since you insist…I guess I have no choice but to accept, then."

"Good."

"Fine."

Sam waited a beat, then charged forward again.

"You mind shaking on it or something? Let me see those fingers, man, so I can make sure you're not crossing them or anything…"

Dean smirked but obliged, extended his thickly wrapped right hand towards his brother, then switching hands as he realized that it wouldn't work like this, changing to his left. Wrapped as well, sure, but not as badly as the other. Sam took it gingerly, shaking it softly before letting go again.

"I'm deeply wounded, Sam. You don't trust your own brother?"

"Always better to make sure, Dean. No pun intended."

That done Sam settled back against the windshield finally, turning away from Dean to look out over the salvage yard again. His back rested against the cool glass and he felt the car shift and groan as Dean settled down next to him. This time, their shoulders touched and neither of them made a move to break the contact.

Sam lifted his beer to his mouth after a couple of minutes only to find it empty. He could basically _feel_ Dean grin next to him before he made the same mistake himself only about 20 seconds later. Sam hurled his bottle away then, as full force as he managed without getting up and putting much swing behind the throw, extending a victorious fist above his head when the bottle came crashing down about halfway across the yard, slamming full force into the already dented beyond repair roof of a battered Honda Civic.

Dean was about to do the same thing, hurl his beer to, of course, beat Sam at it, him always being better at baseball when they were younger and still had been throwing some balls every once in a while. That had been before it had become part of their training schedule, before it had become work instead of fun.

Only now, the bottle only made it about 10 feet, tops, landing with a dull thumb in the middle of a dried up patch of grass, making the dog jump up and growl low in its throat when it startled at the impact. Sam was about to shoot some snide remark at Dean, something about throwing like a girl, but when he turned his head to look at his brother, he could see Dean cradling his left arm closer to his body, lips pouted out in frustration.

"You OK? Did you throw with your left arm? Did you hurt yourself again?"

Dean grumbled something, forced himself to relax while rotating his shoulder carefully, testing the stiffness, wincing a little when he reached the point where he still wasn't able to lift it up farther without causing it to hurt.

"It's fine…just forgot for a second."

"Alright."

Dean huffed, then added with an audible pout:

"'t was a lucky shot anyway."

Sam laughed, rolled the back of his head on the windshield, eyeing his brother with a satisfied smirk.

"If that makes you feel better…sure. Go on believing it."

"I'm injured, dude. Both shoulder and hand. And I shot with my left. So, yeah, usually I'd beat you without even breaking a sweat."

"Sure…"

"Absolutely."

"Alright, alright. Whatever, dude."

Sam chuckled softly, saw the dog suddenly perk its ears up and turn around, facing towards the house, it's head tipped to the side a little, listening intently.

A second later they heard it too, a faint shout, Bobby hollering Sam's name at the top of his lungs, then adding something that sounded like _dinner_ and _get your asses into gear _or something the like.

Dean laughed hoarsely next to him.

"Doesn't he sound like a soccer-mum right there? I wonder what he's cooked up tonight?"

Sam rolled his eyes, picturing Bobby in a flowered apron, a dish of appel strudel in his hands, for whatever reason, barely suppressing a laughing fit at the image.

"God, I hope his girlfriend, that Susan-woman brought something over. The pasta he made yesterday still sits in my stomach like a block of cement."

"Yeah…gross. But at least he did make an effort…"

Sam watched Dean push himself upright, stretching his legs, then slowly sliding off the hood of the car. He stopped to regain his balance for a second, then started, slowly, to walk towards the house.

"Better not keep him waiting or else he'll throw a fit and flush it all down the drain." He shot back at Sam.

Sam chuckled, watched Dean slightly concerned as his brother limped a little, walking slightly hunched over for the first couple of steps before gradually straightening, his muscles loosening up apparently, allowing him to get back a faint memory of his nonchalant swagger.

It still took him some time, a little too much effort, especially when getting up after sitting or lying down for too long, after getting out of bed in the morning, Sam knew that. His muscles still locked up way too easily, still sore and stiff but at least now he was able to get them moving and obeying his commands fairly quickly.

Yet Sam had no idea how much he was hurting, really, deep down.

Either way, mentally or physically.

But he recognized the effort and he knew that Dean at least was trying. He remembered himself, back then, after Meg, trying so hard, being afraid of failing. Dean had been there to build him back up, always. So he'd just return the favor now, whether Dean liked it or not. And Sam was sure that, in the end, that's what his brother wanted. Nobody wanted to be alone in something like this not even Dean.

The dog got up when Dean passed by it, fell in step on his left side, close without touching and Sam watched in silent amusement as Dean reached down to scratch the dog's ear, then turned back to look at Sam who was still sitting on the hood of the car.

"You coming or what? Or are you not hungry?"

Sam shook his head and slid off the car, trotting a couple of steps until he'd caught up with his brother and falling in step besides him, choosing his right side to give the dog some space.

A strange pair, those two. But somehow they seemed so at ease with each other, it gave Sam a strange sense of comfort, even though it was just a dog that his brother chose to trust at a time like this. Better than nothing.

They walked in quiet until, about halfway across the yard, Dean nudged Sam with his elbow, drawing his attention again.

"You know, we should really talk about that body-pain-job you did on me… I mean, I always knew that you swing that way but that did take it a little far, don't you think?"

Sam huffed, scratched the back of his head while looking at Dean out of the corner of his eyes.

"Come on Dean, you enjoyed it. Those perky nipples didn't lie, man."

Dean snorted, chucked his heel towards his little brother's leg, nudging him half-heartedly, almost losing balance himself when trying to trip Sam down.

"Maybe we should have saved some of that stuff, the paint, I mean. Could have drawn you some boobs, turn you into the girl you always wanted to be."

"Well, Dean, you just keep wolfing down those burgers the way you do and you'll grow yourself a nice-sized pair there yourself…"

This time the hit he received did hurt and Sam hobbled, favoring his left leg, still not able to hold back the wicked grin that split his face pretty much in two. He saw his brother smirk too, even though not quite as openly as him.

"Told you before, gladly gonna tell you again. Burning a lot of calories here, Sammy, all that hunting and then the sex…"

"Oh come on, don't…I don't wanna hear about that."

Dean shrugged, grinning brightly.

"Well… you could still learn something, you know? I'm telling you, I look awesome, never had any complaints. But, you know, maybe its better that way. Don't need you poaching through my territory."

"You just fear the competition, man."

Any remark from Dean was cut short when another shout from the house startled them both.

"God, he's one impatient housewife!"

Sam saw Dean halt, suddenly, slowing down, eyes squinting intently. He was about to reach out, grab his big brother, thinking that maybe he got sick, was going to keel over or something when Dean's eyebrows shot up so high, they almost disappeared into his hairline and he turned to look at Sam with open delight shining in his once again bright green eyes.

"That smell like Lasagne to you?"

Sam held up his head, sniffing the air, his face brightening up almost instantly.

"Damn it…I bet that's Susan's work. Better hurry up, we actually have something to look forward to now!"

They mounted the front steps to the house side by side, the dog staying behind at the bottom of the steps, smacking its flews loudly, clearly reminding Dean of his duty to bring him some treat of the delicious smelling food later on.

"Sorry pal, can't promise that there's going to be anything left for you once we're finished." Dean called softly over his shoulder.

But Sam was sure that somehow, Dean would manage to sneak at least a tiny bite back out later on.

Sam held the door for his brother, ignoring his mocking gaze at the motion while ushering him inside to the wonderful smell of the home cooked Italian food and the sound of muffled conversation coming from the kitchen.

Something about _those boys are going to be going to be going to bed without dinner if they don't show up soon._ Then Susan's light laughter, followed by Bobby's surprisingly uncontained one.

The brother's shared an amused look before Sam let the door fall shut loudly behind them.

Announcing their presence to Bobby and Susan, neither wanting to walk in on something…

It was good to get back on track again, even though it was still far too…awkward, at times, as if they both were afraid of how far they could go without doing any damage. But if they'd stick together, stick to their truce, their deal, they'd be doing alright, Sam guessed. And with Bobby by their side they made some sort of family even.

A pretty awesome one at that. There were plenty of people that had nothing even remotely like it.

So, maybe they were pretty good off after all.

All things considered.

**The end**

_Final AN:_

_Alright…so, what do you think? I hope I managed to pull it off… _

_Needless to say, it's been a long, long story and I'm thankful for all of you that stuck with it all the way through. Even more so as I know I haven't been exactly…stable, at times, and I went completely out of character and unloaded that on you, which I never, ever should have done, ever. _

_But it taught me learn some valuable lessons, one of which is, that sometimes help or support comes from the most unexpected sources. So, I know I said it before but I have to say it again – thanks to all of those offering support – through Pm's and reviews or otherwise. You are wonderful – really. I don't know what I would have done without you._

_Another lesson was that, when at one point I decided that I was never, ever going to write anything ever again, I discovered that it's close to impossible and I didn't make it for more than a day or two before I had to write 'just a quick little something' that later culminated into something more. Which now leaves me with a couple other ideas in my head and partly on paper, that I'll probably dish out, no matter what. Holding them back is not going to help any, so I might as well just hope for the best._

_Then, of course, a special thanks to __OcherMe__ who beta-ed this story and managed to point out my mistakes without being very obvious about it, for correcting sentences that made absolutely no sense but in the end still sounded like I wanted them to… and for the little notes on the sides that made me smile and sometimes even laugh out loud. That's the most amazing thing – seeing or reading the immediate reaction to a sentence or a train of thought…it really helped a lot!_

_So – thanks, for everything._

_Alright…so, to end this An that's probably longer than the whole damn story…again thank you so much, for every single review and alert and PM. You're all wonderful, awesome, great and I hope to hear from you again at some point. _

_I'll probably start posting a sequel to _'demons I get'_ pretty soon – if anyone's at all interested. It's called 'whiplash' – at least that's the working title. So, if you want, stay on the lookout for that!_

_Cheers to you all and take special care!!!_


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